March, 1972
Malfoy Manor
"My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy bowed as he walked into Lord Voldemort's office. He carried a case in his hand, and he waited for permission to sit. Voldemort did not grant it. He stared at Malfoy and noted dryly,
"You've recovered from the celebrations surrounding your son Lucius' engagement to Narcissa Black, I see."
"A little Hang-Away Potion did the trick, Master," said Abraxas. "Cygnus was worse off. He's elated - with Bellatrix being wed this summer to Rodolphus Lestrange and now Narcissa becoming engaged to my Lucius, his spirits are quite high."
"Hmm." Voldemort pinched his lips. He drummed his fingers and noticed just how nervous Abraxas Malfoy seemed. "Out with it. What is the news?"
Malfoy licked his lip and gestured to the chair opposite Voldemort. "May I sit, My Lord?"
Voldemort finally pushed the chair out with a flick of his wand and watched as Malfoy came to sit. He raised his eyebrows, and Malfoy cleared his throat carefully. He pulled his case onto his lap, and he opened it. He pulled out a cloudy glass sphere, and he cautiously handed it over to Voldemort.
"A prophecy," Voldemort said with feigned calm. Abraxas Malfoy worked in the Department of Mysteries. If anyone would have access to the prophecies that got made, it would be him. Voldemort asked, "Who does this prophecy concern?"
"It was made by Cassandra Vablatsky to me, myself, My Lord, in the Department of Mysteries during one of her recent great Seeing sessions. Among many other prophecies, this one stood out to me because she referenced The Dark Lord. I knew it was about you. She has no recollection of making the prophecy. So far as I know, I am the only one to have heard it."
Voldemort turned the Prophecy Record over and over in his hands.
"I shall need to Obliviate you of the memory of the prophecy," he said simply, "and keep the Record. If it is a prophecy concerning me, only I may know of it."
"I understand, Master," Abraxas said obediently. Voldemort opened his bottom desk drawer, placed the Prophecy Record inside, and shut the drawer. He aimed his wand at Abraxas and muttered,
"Legilimens."
He immediately began to search for the memory of Cassandra Vablatsky making a prophecy about Voldemort to Abraxas, and soon enough he found it.
They were sitting at a table with two comfortable chairs, Records lined up ready to receive prophecies. Cassandra put her palms flat on the table and tipped her head back, sucking in air hard. When she flopped forward and spoke, it was as though eight or ten low voices were speaking at once.
'She who is most loyal to the Dark Lord is she whom he needs most of all… He needs her beside him, and she must belong solely to him. Without this most loyal servant, his failure is certain… Further does she creep, farther does he fall. Withering like winter without her he will be. She craves him in the depths of her being, and time it is for him to crave back. She who is most loyal to the Dark Lord is she whom he needs most of all…'
Cassandra went silent then, and Abraxas' mouth fell open. He tried not to show emotion as he labeled the prophecy and made note of it, knowing he would need to steal it later and take it to his master.
"You've done well, Abraxas," said Voldemort, trying not to let his voice shake as he processed just what the prophecy meant. He aimed his wand at Malfoy again and twisted it carefully. "Obliviate."
Bellatrix.
Of course the prophecy referred to Bellatrix.
She who was most loyal to him. Could there be any other? He needed her? He needed her beside him? She had to belong solely to him? What, was he meant to keep her from marrying Rodolphus Lestrange in three months' time?
Further does she creep, farther does he fall.
Voldemort sipped at his firewhisky and stared into the fireplace in his office, watching the flames lick the bricks. He'd thought over the prophecy a dozen times since Malfoy had left, his memory altered. Would he fail if he did not somehow bring Bellatrix nearer to him?
Not that she would mind, he knew. The beautiful twenty-year-old servant clung to him like a drowning woman clinging to flotsam. She hung on his every word at meetings. She stared at him whenever they were in the same room. She was also gleeful and skilful in battle, and more than competent. Voldemort had to admit that marrying her off to Rodolphus Lestrange felt like something of a damned shame, given that she was so very… devoted. He'd never tasted her. He'd always resisted the urge to give in to just how thirsty she was for a sampling of her master. He wouldn't reward any servant with his human flesh, he always told himself.
But now there was a prophecy, a prophecy telling him to keep her near him, that she had to belong solely to him, that it was time for him to crave her back. He gulped hard and shut his eyes, and he pulled back his left sleeve. He pressed his wand to his inner wrist, to his Dark Mark, and he whispered,
"Morsmordre… Bellatrix…"
He was calling her through the ether. Her own Mark would burn wherever she was, and she would Apparate here and come to her master at once. He stared into the fire and finished off his tumbler of firewhisky whilst he waited, thinking he was being a complete fool for calling her here now. He licked his lip and tried to imagine what she would taste like. Summer, probably. No. Winter. Bellatrix would taste like winter.
There was knocking on his office door, and Voldemort heaved himself to his feet and Banished his tumbler over to the drinks cart. He walked with slightly uneven steps over to the door and opened it, and he saw Bellatrix standing there in a long black velvet traveling robe. She was breathless as she curtsied and asked,
"Master, is something the matter? How may I -"
"Come inside, Bella." Voldemort stepped aside, and Bellatrix rather confusedly stepped into his office. It was dark in here except for the fire, and she seemed confused by that, too. Voldemort cleared his throat and decided to try and be gentlemanly. After all, he needed to woo her, or at least to crave her. He had to try and crave her. That was what the prophecy said.
"May I take your cloak?" he asked, and Bellatrix's thick brows furrowed. She was baffled now, he could see. She pulled at the satin ribbon round her neck and drew her heavy cloak off her shoulders, and as she handed it to Voldemort, she murmured,
"Thank you kindly, Master."
"Come. Sit with me," said Voldemort, gesturing to the two armchairs before the fire. Bellatrix sank into a chair, and he asked her, "White wine or red?"
"Wine?" Bellatrix's jaw dropped. "Erm… whichever you prefer, My Lord. Thank you."
"Red, then," he nodded. He went over to the drinks cart and used his wand to uncork a bottle of red elf-made wine, and he poured two large glasses. He brought one over to Bellatrix and sat down beside her, and he held up his glass.
"To Narcissa's engagement," he said meaningfully. "She and Lucius Malfoy will make one another very happy, I have no doubt."
"To Narcissa's engagement," Bellatrix nodded. She still looked awfully confused as she drank, and she finally asked, "Master, why have you brought me here?"
He dragged a finger around the rim of his glass, and he shrugged. "You are by far my most loyal servant, Bellatrix. Am I not allowed to spend a bit of time with my most loyal servant?"
"You're allowed to do whatever pleases you, My Lord," Bellatrix pointed out, "and I am scarcely aggrieved by the… invitation. It's only that it's come as a surprise."
"Because you have wanted time with me for a good long while, haven't you?" Voldemort stared at her and thought to himself, you must crave her. She really was very pretty, he thought. She really was incredibly competent. She really was brilliantly intelligent, wickedly Dark, and very, very pretty. Could he crave her the way she craved him? He realised he'd been staring at her for a very long time, and finally she nodded and admitted,
"It's true, Master; I've wanted nothing more than this right here for ages."
"Then I have made you happy," he said, "and I think deservedly so. You serve me incredibly well in battle, Bellatrix; you are the most loyal of all my servants. You deserve to be happy. Tell me something else that would make you happy."
Her full lips parted, and he didn't even need Legilimency to read what she was thinking.
A kiss.
She really did crave him. Her eyes gave her away, her dark, wide eyes. Voldemort's stomach twisted a little, and he set his wine glass down on the table beside him. He rose slowly and beckoned with one finger for Bellatrix to do the same. She came to stand before him, and Voldemort realised just what a height difference there was between them. He was tall for a wizard, and she was short for a witch, and so she barely reached his sternum. She was thin, too, so she was just a little waif of a thing. So small, buried under those voluminous curls, he thought.
Withering like winter without her he will be. She craves him in the depths of her being, and time it is for him to crave back.
Could he crave her? There was only one way to begin finding out, Voldemort thought. He hadn't been with a witch since his days as Tom Riddle working at Borgin and Burkes. As soon as he'd gone to the Continent, he'd sworn off witches as a monumental distraction from the task at hand. And so his fingers trembled, unpractised after decades of doing nothing like this, as he reached to snarl them into Bellatrix's hair. She gasped a little as one of his hands curled against her scalp, as the other one took her jaw carefully. She reached up on her tiptoes and he bent down, and they met halfway through the height difference as he touched his lips to hers.
Just a press, just a push. Then another, then a third, until Voldemort felt hunger strike him through. Suddenly his hands clenched on Bellatrix's face and in her hair, and he delved his tongue between her lips. Bellatrix squealed in shock as her fingers flew to the front of his robes. Her hands convulsed against his chest as he kissed her harder, his head swimming. He was a little drunk, he knew, and if he'd been sober, he wouldn't have kissed her like this, prophecy or not. But he'd had plenty of firewhisky and some wine, and so he did kiss her, scraping his tongue along the roof of her mouth and sucking on her bottom lip.
When at last he pulled away, Bellatrix staggered backward and looked like she'd fall. He grabbed her waist to steady her, and when he did, the thought occurred to him that she had a very small, very attractive little waist that he rather liked to hold. He didn't let go for a long moment, just watching her pant up at him with her wet, swollen lips. Her cheeks had gone dark pink, and she didn't seem to be able to say anything. Her thoughts were a swirl of confused, chaotic bliss. She was in paradise right now, Voldemort could sense. She wasn't sure what to make of what had happened, but she was certain it was the most wonderful thing in the entire world.
And suddenly, standing there holding Bellatrix Black by the waist, staring down into her dark eyes and still tasting winter - yes, winter - from her, Lord Voldemort realised something terrifying and wonderful.
He could crave her.
Author's Note: Woooooo back to Bellamort after writing Burned Into Glory for Crimes of Grindelwald and my Pirates of the Caribbean fic. I do plan on writing Part II of The Dream Series after I finish this one, which is rather burning a hole in my brain, so thanks for your patience.
As always, thank you so very much for reading. I can't tell you how much I appreciate each and every comment.