Number Six, St Alban's Grove, London

6 November 1971

"Bella."

Her eyes sprang open, for her shoulder was being shaken roughly, and Voldemort hissed at her,

"Get your wand; there's someone in the house."

Bellatrix tried not to gasp. She blinked quickly a few times, put herself into battle mode, and snatched at her wand from the table beside the bed. She and Voldemort tiptoed to the doorway, and she could feel his trepidation rolling off him in waves. She knew he was among the most powerful Legilimens to ever live, so if he'd been awakened by the sensation of someone in the house, it was probably true.

He paused with his hand on the doorjamb and turned to look right at Bellatrix. Suddenly a thought, clear as speech, flew into her head from his.

It's your sister.

Bellatrix was confused, but she followed him swiftly and silently down the stairs. She held her wand out, her eyes scanning the library to the left.

"Stu -"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Bellatrix whirled around to see a flash of vibrant green light, and then her eyes settled on the corpse that had collapsed to the ground. Ted Tonks.

"Andromeda!" Bellatrix shrieked, dashing through the house with her wand held out. "Where are you, you little traitor bitch? Come out, come out, blood traitor!"

She rushed through the parlour and the dining-room, and when she came into the kitchen, she found Andromeda standing with her own wand extended. Andromeda's pretty face had barely aged since Bellatrix had last seen her. It didn't matter. She was already dead in Bellatrix's mind. For a half second, Andromeda gave Bellatrix a pleading look, and she insisted,

"We came to talk. To get amnesty for those who -"

"You came to talk. In the middle of the night. By breaking into a house protected by all manner of wards. Liar. Crucio!"

Bellatrix's spell hit Andromeda like a bomb detonating, and the younger sister's wand clattered to the tile floor in the kitchen. She shrieked wildly and began convulsing. Bellatrix held the spell for only a moment, and then she demanded,

"How did you find out where we live?"

Andromeda didn't answer. She just rolled slowly and tried to reach for her wand.

"Accio wand," Bellatrix said, and the wand came flying toward her. She snapped it at once, her mind suddenly going to the day when she and her sisters and parents had taken Andromeda to Ollivander's. Bellatrix kicked the broken bits of wand away, from beside her, Lord Voldemort said smoothly,

"Legilimens."

He stared at Andromeda, his eyes locked on the girl's face even as she said pitifully to Bellatrix,

"Please. Bella, you must know how this has all gone out of control. We need to talk about justice, about giving people their rights back. I just want to live in peace with Ted…"

"The Mudblood is dead," Bellatrix said dryly. Voldemort cleared his throat from beside her and murmured,

"She forced your parents' House-Elf to trace our Disapparation from that home to this one. They thought if they snuck in, they could force a conversation about Mudbloods' so-called 'rights.'"

"Fucking Marley," Bellatrix snarled. She raised her wand to Andromeda, who sobbed softly and said up to Voldemort,

"You're destroying lives. You're ruining it all. Everything."

"You're wrong, Andy," Bellatrix whispered, using her old nickname for the girl. "You've always been wrong about all this."

"She didn't think you had it in you to kill her," Voldemort said. "She told the Mudblood that you wouldn't kill your own sister."

"I only have one sister," Bellatrix huffed, "and Cissy isn't here. Avada Kedavra!"

The jade green explosion of light hit Andromeda square on, filling the kitchen with vivid energy for a moment before dissipating. Bellatrix lowered her wand, staring at Andromeda's motionless corpse. Her hand should be shaking, she thought. She should be crying.

"Why don't you go Vanish the Mudblood's body?" Voldemort suggested, almost gently. "Let me attend to hers."

"With all due respect, My Lord, she was a traitor against me just as much as she was one against you," Bellatrix said. She raised her wand again, her hand steady and sure, and she said firmly, "Corpus Evanesco."

Andromeda's body dissolved into thin air, Vanishing into non-being as though the witch had never been born. For a little moment, Bellatrix was hit with a shock of memories. They came all at once, like a cascade.

Bellatrix and Andromeda playing with an infant Narcissa, teasing her with toys. The three girls ambling down Diagon Alley behind their mother, who was making yet another trip to Twillfit and Tattings. Getting ice cream at Florean Fortescue's, with Andromeda demanding to know why Bellatrix didn't like the strawberry flavour. Andromeda walking arm-in-arm with Ted Tonks through the corridors of Hogwarts, and Bellatrix firmly scolding her later in the Slytherin Common Room. Marley always making Andromeda's very favourite Christmas cookies, the lemon ones with powdered sugar.

"Bella," Voldemort said quietly, "There's no one else here. They acted alone. But we have to leave, you understand? The fact that they just… barged in…"

"How did they do it?" Bellatrix demanded. "How did they get in the house?"

"There weren't anti-Apparition charms, strictly speaking," Voldemort said, and Bellatrix could tell he was furious with himself. He shrugged a little. "It's fine. I've been thinking of building a larger residence in the countryside. We'll go to Malfoy Manor for the time being."

"All right." Bellatrix stared at the ground where Andromeda had been. Then she looked at the two broken pieces of Andromeda's wand where they lay on the tile. She swallowed hard, aimed her wand at the pieces, and said, "Incendio."

Then she watched them burn, the remnants of her dead sister's magic.

"Will you be all right?" Voldemort asked, and Bellatrix turned her face to him.

"I've killed many times before, My Lord, and I've always been just fine."

"This didn't feel any different?" he raised his eyebrows at her, and Bellatrix shook her head firmly.

"No, My Lord. Why would it feel different?"

Voldemort cupped her jaw in his hand and lowered his lips to hers.

"There she is again," he whispered. "My beautifully vicious little thing."


Wasdale, Lake District

12 November 1971

"Well?" Voldemort said, gesturing rather grandly to the moorland around him. A quiet, soft rain was falling, and Bellatrix turned her face through the foggy morning to look up at the craggy screes.

"It's beautiful," she said honestly. "You're going to build it here? The new residence?"

Voldemort chewed his lip and said, "I've already built it."

Bellatrix's mouth fell open. He'd been gone the last ten days from dawn until dusk, but she'd assumed he'd been working on projects with his own Ministry, or keeping track of the situation in America. Every night she'd briefed him with mail and news, like the good secretary she was, but he'd always seemed distracted and exhausted. They hadn't made love in over a week, and Bellatrix hadn't pushed the issue. Perhaps, she thought, he'd been in screaming matches all day. Perhaps he'd been doing something he couldn't discuss with her. Through their new, strange bond, she could feel his fatigue, his worry, but only the most fleeting distinct thoughts.

She had seen this place a few days earlier, but she thought maybe he'd come here for a battle. They hadn't talked war ever since she'd had to kill Andromeda, but she'd assumed the image of this rugged moorland had something to do with combat. She'd been wrong, it seemed.

"You've already built it," Bellatrix said, looking around and shrugging. "Where is it?"

Voldemort smirked. "This one is properly hidden."

He turned round then and began moving his wand in elegant arcs and angry slashes. Tearing down his barriers, his wards, his distraction techniques and his diversionary tactics. Bellatrix watched in awe as a grey stone structure began to materialise, appearing slowly as though it were eating its way through the ether. Finally Voldemort turned back to face her, his skin dripping with the soft rain as he crossed his arms and asked rather pompously,

"So? What do you think?"

"It's… it's a castle," Bellatrix noted, taking a few steps over the brown grass and dead thistles toward the building.

"Have you got something against castles?" Voldemort asked, and Bellatrix shook her head.

"Certainly not, My Lord."

She stepped closer to the enormous structure, which seemed like it had quite taken over the rural valley. It was comprised of four matching towers with defensive walls between them.

"There's a courtyard in the centre," Voldemort was saying from behind her as she studied the stained glass windows. "Each tower has bedrooms and a full bathroom. One tower has the kitchens and dining room. Another has a number of parlours and libraries. Yet another contains offices - for both of us, mind. The last has an owlery and a gathering hall. Just in case we ever decide to host anybody."

Bellatrix whirled away from the castle and demanded in a tone she knew to be insubordinate, "How did you do this? How did you build this castle in ten days' time?"

Voldemort looked awfully smug, and she could feel his sense of triumph as he said, "I didn't personally do much of anything. There are architects and carpenters for this sort of thing. Interior designers."

"Muggle or Magical?" Bellatrix asked, and Voldemort said simply,

"Both. I used who I needed, and I Obliviated them all. A few I killed for my own purposes."

Bellatrix didn't suppose she was meant to know what those purposes were, but in a sudden flash of their minds joined, she saw him in a cave, surrounded by pale white creatures who had once been human. Inferi. Bellatrix swallowed hard and turned back to the castle.

"Can we go inside?"

"Of course. We live here now," Voldemort said. "There are three House-Elves. They'll behave better than Marley did. Oh, I replaced her for your parents, by the way."

"Thank you," Bellatrix said numbly, walking slowly up to the castle's oversized wooden doors. They creaked open, taking their time in moving, and Voldemort said,

"It'll open for us both. Anyone else who attempts to enter without explicit permission will hit a shield and dissolve."

"Dissolve," Bellatrix repeated. "You mean they'll Vanish?"

Voldemort stepped up beside her and tipped his head. "Something like that. Come on, little thing. Let's get out of this rain."

Castles were inherently cold; Hogwarts had always seemed to be wrestling with itself to stay warm. But when Bellatrix stepped into the carpet-lined corridor of the castle here, she felt perfectly comfortable. The gloom and damp from outside had gone. It had given way to a cosy sort of pleasantness, and Bellatrix had a smile on her face as she explored.

"The master suite is in the tower to your left," Voldemort told her. "The ground level is the offices, and up the stairs is the bedroom."

Bellatrix stepped from the corridor through a heavy doorway into the tower. To her left, she could see a spacious and minimally-decorated office that was clearly intended to be Lord Voldemort's. There was heavy, dark wood paneling the walls, and his windows looked straight out onto the steep, rugged scree. To the right was a slightly smaller office, midnight blue and silver. It reminded Bellatrix vaguely of her childhood bedroom, which made her eyes burn for some reason. Her desk was black wood, and a painting on the wall showed a single white rose lying on garden bench.

"This is beautiful," Bellatrix breathed.

"Go upstairs," Voldemort commanded her. She rubbed her hand on the swirled newel post of the stout stairs for a moment, and she turned to face him. She could feel everything he felt just now. Pride in what he'd made. The death of the jealousy he'd felt when they'd visited America. A sense that, finally, Lord Voldemort would live the life of a monarch like he ought to. And then there was a little uncertainty, a slight fear that somehow it wasn't good enough for Bellatrix.

"It's more than enough, My Lord," she nodded. "What is it called? Castles have names."

"It's called Archer's Edge," Voldemort said at once, and Bellatrix had to try not to cry then. Archer's Edge. Bellatrix - the star called Bellatrix - was situated on the outer edge of the arm of Orion the Hunter in the sky. Bellatrix the star was at the crux of Orion's arm, the arm that held his bow. Bellatrix was the Archer's Edge.

"Go upstairs," he whispered again, and this time Bellatrix just nodded as she turned and walked up the wide, twisting staircase. She reached the top of the spiral and gasped softly. She'd come straight up into an enormous bedchamber, which somehow felt airy despite the rain falling outside the arched windows. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries depicting moments from Magical history, and the stately bed in the centre of the room had emerald green curtains and linens. There was a marble fireplace, and Bellatrix could see a black-and-white tiled bathroom through an arched doorway. She stood near the windows and just took it all in for a moment.

"I thought you were fighting," she finally said. "Ten days of you being exhausted and irritated and… gone. I thought you were doing something else."

"Then my Occlumency isn't entirely useless against you," Voldemort said, tucking her hair behind her ear. His face was serious as he said, "Lord Voldemort needs to live somewhere impressive. But, just like Malfoy Manor, it needs to be impenetrable. People can come here on official business, but there will be no break-ins. Nothing like what happened in London."

With Andromeda, he meant. Bellatrix nodded. There were signs that the President of MACUSA was going to attempt her coup at any moment, Bellatrix knew. If things in America went wobbly, it would be more important than ever that the fledgling leadership in wizarding Britain look entirely secure. Having a home like this was like having one of the grandiose palaces where the Muggle kings and queens cavorted. It would make him seem otherworldly and untouchable. It wouldn't due for the demagogue of the wizarding world to live in the home of Malfoy family forever, and apparently a rowhouse in London wasn't good enough, either.

"Archer's Edge," Bellatrix nodded. She sighed and reached up to take his bearded face in her hands. "I think I'll like it here."

He bent to kiss her, pressing her against the stone walls he'd had made. His fingers pulled a little at the hem of her tunic, and he whispered against her lips,

"The House-Elves know not to come up here unless they're summoned. What do you say we break in the bed a little?"


Archer's Edge, Lake District

16 November 1971

"... and on the Mudblood front…" Abraxas Malfoy pulled a few sheets of parchment from his leather folio and put them on Lord Voldemort's desk as he said proudly, "In the past week, the Ministry has nullified a dozen marriages involving Mudbloods. We've also seized and incinerated forty-two wands, and seventeen children of Mudbloods were registered under the Impurity of Blood Act."

"Well done," Voldemort commended, pushing the parchments aside as he nodded. "Any news from America?"

"Nothing revelatory, My Lord," Abraxas admitted, pushing his silver-blond hair from his face. "We've got a spy who keeps us informed, but transatlantic communication is slow, and he claims that MACUSA is still operating as always."

"Keep me apprised," Voldemort said sternly. "I can tell the coup is imminent."

"As soon as I have a scrap of information, My Lord, you'll be notified at once," Malfoy nodded. He drummed his fingers on his folio and said, "The final thing on my agenda is the international Quidditch tournament. It begins tomorrow, as you know. The first match is between the English and Italian teams. Rabastan Lestrange has already arranged for a large, private box for you and wonders if you will be in attendance."

"Yes, of course," Voldemort nodded. "It's good optics."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Master," said Abraxas. He looked a little nervous then as he asked, "Will Madam Black be there, as well?"

Voldemort scoffed and said quietly, "She doesn't like Quidditch. Still… let me find out. Bella!"

He called her name just loudly enough that Abraxas Malfoy might think she could hear him. But he summoned her with his mind, willing her to come into his office. He heard a dull scraping of a chair on the floor in the distance, and a few moments later, she appeared in the threshold of his office. She flashed him a pretty little smile and acknowledged,

"My Lord. Minister Malfoy."

Abraxas Malfoy flew to his feet and bowed his head. "My Lady."

Bellatrix stepped into the office as Malfoy sat back down. Voldemort sniffed lightly and asked her, "Have you any interest in attending the Quidditch match tomorrow? It's England and Italy. We'd have a box."

"Well." Bellatrix shifted her weight and crossed her arms, her voice a little playful as she noted, "My Lord knows that I have precisely no interest whatsoever in Quidditch. But, of course, if you want me there, I shall be more than happy to feign fascination."

Voldemort couldn't help but laugh a little, and Malfoy grinned as though he'd never been so amused.

"It's settled, then," Voldemort said to Malfoy. "We'll both be there. You can tell Lestrange."

"Very good, My Lord. Thank you," Malfoy said.

"My Lord, I was just finishing up my own briefing for you on the morning's post. Shall I go finish up?" Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow at him, and Voldemort waved his hand dismissively.

"Good day, My Lady," Malfoy said, and she nodded over her shoulder as she left the office.

"Minister."

Once she'd gone, Malfoy folded his hands atop his folio and said, "My Lord, if I may speak plainly to compliment Madam Black… I am immensely impressed with her. I've known her since she was a tiny child, of course, and it doesn't surprise me that she grew to be so competent. But she does her job very well indeed."

Voldemort felt like asking Malfoy why the Dark Lord should care about his Minister's approval when it came to his wife. Instead he snapped,

"You think she's a good secretary, do you?"

Malfoy's cheeks flushed scarlet. "I… I meant… My Lord, I simply meant that she is an honourable and impressive… you know, in her role as our lady."

Voldemort let Malfoy squirm and trip over his words for a moment. Then, deciding that his Minister for Magic deserved at least a modicum of mercy, he said lightly,

"She was born for this, I think."

Malfoy looked relieved as he nodded and huffed, "Quite so, Master."

"If there's nothing else, Malfoy, you can go," Voldemort said, and Malfoy rose and wordlessly nodded. He moved quickly from the office, obviously still embarrassed about how poorly he'd communicated. Voldemort decided to let the man stew in his discomfort. It was good, he thought, for his closest servants to sometimes fear that he might sever ties with them or cut them off from their own little powers. It was good that they feared crossing or offending him. Sometimes, he knew, that meant acting more offended than he actually was.

He glanced up at the sound of knocking on his office doorway, and when he met Bellatrix's eyes, he felt a wash of affection for him that had come straight from her mind. She held up a stack of parchments and asked,

"Ready for my briefing?"

"Come on in," Voldemort nodded. He wandlessly pushed out the chair that Malfoy had just pushed back in, and Bellatrix nodded gratefully as she sat.

"So," she said, "Quidditch tomorrow."

"You'll be in a private box," he pointed out. "If you want to bring a book to stem your boredom, I won't stop you."

Bellatrix smirked and shook her head. "Everyone's going to be watching your box instead of the match. It's not as though I could just sit there and read. Don't worry; I'll clap when England score."

She pulled the first sheet of parchment off her stack and set it down in front of Voldemort, and her voice moved from flirtation to business in a flash.

"Mr Brady Crabbe begs your intervention in the impending marriage of his son to a Half-Blood witch," she said. "He is distraught over the dilution of his Pureblood line and wonders if you might forbid the union."

Voldemort snorted a derisive laugh and shoved the paper aside. "No. I am not going to meddle in such piddling affairs. It's not illegal for a Pureblood to marry a Half-Blood. Send him a letter reminding him that the Dark Lord does not intervene into mundane matters to accommodate the personal preferences of angry fathers."

Bellatrix looked like she was suppressing a smile as she took the letter from the desk and used her self-inking quill to jot a note on the back. She put the next bit of mail in front of Voldemort. This was an elaborately decorated bit of card stock, and Bellatrix said,

"Rodolphus Lestrange and Marya are getting married on the twenty-first of December. I know how you feel about -"

"We're going," Voldemort snapped. "He's one of my most loyal soldiers, and she's your cousin. We're going. Have yourself a very nice gown made, all right?"

Bellatrix nodded but pointed out, "It's rude to look better than the bride on her wedding day."

"Yes, well, you could show up wearing burlap scraps and you'd look better," Voldemort said in a sharp tone. "Next?"

Bellatrix hesitated, staring at the parchment in her lap and then shaking her head. "That's it."

Voldemort could feel her tension, and he scowled as he wandlessly Summoned the parchment from her lap. Bellatrix's cheeks went red at once, and before he could even read the page, she said awkwardly,

"It's just one of the love letters they send you. I thought this one was especially funny, that's all. Thought you might find it amusing."

Voldemort's brows furrowed as he flicked his eyes around the letter.

Knowing what power flows from the Dark Lord's wand, I can not help but imagine how powerful his -

Voldemort crushed the letter in his hand and threw it down onto the desk, scowling at Bellatrix.

"Funny," he repeated. "Amusing. Really?"

Bellatrix reached to take the balled-up letter from the desk, but Voldemort shoved her hand away roughly and picked up his wand. He Vanished the letter and reminded her,

"You're not to pay that drivel any mind. I certainly refuse to do so. Shall I pass an edict threatening any witch who writes me a love letter with time in Azkaban? Would that make you feel better, Bella?"

"No, My Lord," she whispered. She looked away from him, staring at the wall as her eyes welled. He felt a surge of her sorrow and something he thought was regret, and she murmured, "They're just stupid letters, I know. But if I can't find humour in them, then they'll drive me mad with jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Voldemort had to fight not to laugh with disbelief. He held his hands up and leaned back in his chair. "What on Earth would you have to be jealous of?"

Bellatrix shook her head and said quietly, "Nothing. You're right. And I know I'm not allowed to be possessive, but -"

"Whatever do you mean?" Voldemort snapped, the bite in his tone cutting through the office. Bellatrix finally turned her eyes to him and shrugged.

"I'm your wife, but I know that I am also just your servant, and I -"

"You're mine, Bellatrix," Voldemort seethed, and she sat up straighter as she assured him,

"I know that, My Lord."

"And I am yours," he continued, rising from his chair and stalking around his desk. "Just as surely as you belong to me, I belong to you. Perhaps it was never my intention to belong to anyone, to mutually possess one another, but that's what it is, isn't it? Marriage?"

"Perhaps others' marriages," Bellatrix said rather meekly. "I suppose I had thought ours was a little different."

"It is different," Voldemort said, pulling her up by her hands and frowning down into her enormous brown eyes. He coiled her curls around his fingers as he told her, "I have to let them write their silly letters, because it's important that they aspire to be granted even a moment in my presence. Just Vanish the damned letters, will you?"

"All right," Bellatrix nodded. "I'm sorry, My Lord."

He thought for a moment, and then he finally curled up half his mouth. "You keep an eye on your journal. Who knows? Maybe love letters will come for you."

Bellatrix smiled sadly, but Voldemort meant what he'd said. He intended on writing to her every day, even if it was just across the castle. If he could receive mindless letters from witches he didn't know, then she could certainly receive actual letters from her husband.

"Do you ever miss the house?" Bellatrix asked suddenly, and Voldemort shook his head in confusion.

"I'm sorry; is the castle insufficient?"

Bellatrix smiled more mirthfully then, and she sighed. "It's not that. It's just… I can't help but get a little sentimental about the place. It's where you asked me to marry you. It's where I actually married you."

Voldemort raised his eyebrows and reminded her, "It's also where I broke your wrist in a fit of drunken rage, and it's where you killed your sister."

Bellatrix stared at him, her eyes hardening and her voice almost lethal as she said, "The wrist healed. And she was not my sister."

"I admire your revisionist semantics, Bella," Voldemort told her. "Really, I do. But it was time to move on. Bigger and better things, and all that."

Bellatrix nodded, seeming to steel herself as she said stiffly, "You're very right, of course, as you always are. I like the castle very much. I won't concern you anymore with the letters. And I'll put on a good show of strength for you tomorrow at the Quidditch match."

"Of course you will," Voldemort said. He leaned down and touched his lips to her forehead, then put his mouth against hers. She seemed wound up and tense, and he found himself forcing her to let him kiss her properly. When she finally did, letting him into her mouth, her body relaxed a little. Voldemort wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body.

He loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love another human. There had been a time when he'd thought himself altogether incapable of love, and that seemed like a million years ago now. Here, in the castle he'd named after her, he knew her to be a powerfully Dark witch and a model consort. But there had been a time when she'd just been a schoolgirl on the other side of a journal. She was the same person now, though things within her had shifted. He wondered if he'd changed as much as she'd done.

"No," Bellatrix whispered, pulling her mouth away. "You've not changed. The authority you possess has changed. You've thrown yourself around in apparent age. But who you are, the wizard who entranced my very soul… you're exactly the same."

She reached up and stroked at his close-cropped beard. He sighed a little and asked,

"Should I shave it off?"

"The beard? No." Bellatrix shook her head and gave him a playful little smile. "It's very sexy."

"Perhaps it's eliciting letters from witches with a fondness for greying beards," Voldemort joked, and Bellatrix laughed quietly for a moment. Then she chewed her lip, gave him a rather weighty look, and said,

"Your wife has a very powerful fondness for your greying beard."

He had her slammed against the edge of the desk before he knew what was happening. His mouth was crushing hers, and it was a dizzy blur as he shoved her long skirt down over her hips and fumbled with the placket of her trousers. He hoisted her up onto his desk, yanking her knickers down and leaving her in her black jumper and her boots. He yanked out his cock, feeling it go hard beneath his palm as he stared at her face. She reached out to hold his jaw in her hand, parting her legs as she whispered,

"An affair with the secretary. Rather cliché, don't you think?"

"It isn't an affair," he said, seizing her hips and pushing himself into her body. "You're my wife."

She was already wet, which made him happy. She was snug and warm as always, and he shuddered as he felt her pleasure mingle with his. Suddenly he couldn't tell whose sensations were whose. He kissed her again, pumping his hips against hers. She liked the feeling of him filling her up, he could tell. She liked how dirty this seemed, to be shagging in his office, even though the castle was their home. She liked the way his beard scratched her face when he kissed her, the way his hands searched her back and arms and breasts.

I love you, he felt her think, and he sent the idea straight back at her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as he came. He thought she finished, too, but it would have been impossible to untangle their climaxes in his head.

He stayed linked with her, physically and mentally, for a long moment, until he realised his seed had leaked all over the desk. He picked up his wand and cleaned everything up, tucking his cock away again as Bellatrix gingerly climbed off the desk. She pulled her knickers and skirt back on and asked quietly,

"Are you hungry? I can have the House-Elves cook up a lunch."

Voldemort nodded as he buttoned his trousers. "Go ahead and have them get started. I'll be along."

He watched her go and then felt a strange, acute sense of loss once she was out of view. He sat at his desk again, leaning his head against his hands as he let out a shaking breath. He ruled all of wizarding Britain now. That was unquestioned. He was fully in charge. But when it came to Bellatrix, he couldn't fully be sure anymore who served whom.

For some bizarre reason, that thought did not bother Voldemort nearly as much as it ought to have done.


Sutton-on-Sea, Lincolnshire

17 November 1971

"You look… good," Voldemort said as soon as they landed outside the Quidditch arena. Bellatrix smirked a little and glanced down at herself. She'd put the outfit together just this morning, aiming for something tough and strong, yet dignified. She'd put on black leggings with knee-high, flat black boots. She had an airy black peasant blouse on, bound with a thick leather corset, complete with silver buckles. Of course, she wore her silver serpent necklace, and she had silver threads wound through the pile of curls on the back of her head. A heavy velvet cape draped around her, blowing back a bit in the cold November wind.

"They're just clothes, My Lord," Bellatrix mumbled self-consciously, following him toward the pitch.

"Still," he said quietly, his own boots crunching on the rocky ground, "you look regal in the right ways."

"Thank you," Bellatrix murmured. She wanted to reach for his gloved hand, to snared their leather-covered fingers together as they walked. But she knew better. The crowd had already gathered inside the Quidditch arena; the Dark Lord was meant to be the last to arrive before the match began. As they approached the tenting around the pitch, Bellatrix saw Rabastan Lestrange standing in simple dark robes, a rather large pin with the badge of the English squad pinned on his cloak.

"My Lord," he called over the wind. "My Lady."

"Harsh breeze for a Quidditch match, isn't it, Lestrange?" Voldemort noted, and Rabastan Lestrange shrugged as he said,

"I flew in far worse for Slytherin, Master."

"It's true," Bellatrix said in a playful tone. "My Lord, I saw Rabastan Lestrange soar through many a squall. If he could do it, I'm sure our national team can weather this bit of wind."

Rabastan laughed, and Voldemort said, "Lestrange, I do believe my wife just smacked your sporting reputation about a bit."

"How is Dahlia?" Bellatrix asked pointedly, and Rabastan sighed a little.

"She apologises, My Lady, for having become a bit reclusive. She's afraid to leave the house very often. I'm sure you understand why, after what happened to Ophelia."

"She has nothing to fear anymore," Voldemort said firmly. "Though, if she wishes to stay at home for her own peace of mind, it is her prerogative."

"Please have her write to me," Bellatrix said, "so that I can come and visit her."

"I will do that, My Lady," Rabastan assured her. "May I escort you both to the box? It's just this way."

He led them through the red and white tenting, through a corridor beneath the scaffolding. Overhead, there was the thrumming life of a crowd riled to a frenzy. Music, wild and projected throughout the arena, whipped energy through the space. Rabastan Lestrange led Bellatrix and Voldemort up a winding set of stairs that seemed far more elaborately constructed than the other scaffolding. Up and up they climbed, until at last they reached a split curtain with the Dark Mark, silver leaf on black velvet.

"Please, will you wait here for just a moment?" Rabastan asked, and though Bellatrix frowned in confusion, Voldemort nodded once. Rabastan disappeared through the curtain, and Bellatrix stared up at her husband, searching for an answer. She could feel his thoughts hurtling into her mind.

I require a proper introduction these days, Bellatrix.

Right on cue, the Amplified voice of Rabastan Lestrange thundered through the arena, the music dying out to give way to his speech.

"Good afternoon, witches and wizards from near and far. My name is Rabastan Lestrange. On behalf of the British Department of Magical Games and Sports, I welcome you to the first international sporting event of our land's new era."

There was applause then, and Rabastan waited for it to fade before he continued,

"Please rise and give due attention to our most benevolent commander, His Eminence, the Great Lord Voldemort and Madam Bellatrix Black."

Bellatrix felt a shock of panic strike her through. She wasn't expecting this. She was surprised to feel Voldemort seize her left hand in his right one, and he pulled them both confidently through the parted curtain. Bellatrix's heart stopped for a moment when she stepped out into the spacious box. Every eye in the vast arena was on them, and then, after a second of very weighty silence, the place erupted.

The applause was deafening. People were screaming, shrieking their approval. It seemed to go on forever. Voldemort held his left hand up in silent greeting, his face stony and cold as he gazed out upon the cheering thousands. He squeezed at Bellatrix's hand, his leather glove creaking around hers. She could feel his satisfaction, his almost orgasmic sense of bliss as the people roared their approval and obedience.

Smile for them, little thing.

She curled her lips up at his unspoken command, finally managing a warmer grin. Finally, Voldemort gestured to one of the carved wooden chairs in the box, inviting Bellatrix to sit. She did, and he sank onto the cushioned chair beside her.

"My Lord," said Rabastan Lestrange from behind them, "Please do not hesitate to call me through the Mark if you or the Lady need anything at all before the end of the match."

"Thank you, Lestrange," Voldemort nodded, and Rabastan left to attend to his own duties.

The squad for Italy was introduced first, to a mixture of boos and cheers, and then the English team was brought out onto the pitch one player at a time. Each waved to the crowd, circling about on their brooms, and Bellatrix clapped along with everyone else. Everyone but Lord Voldemort. He sat in silence, nodding his head in acknowledgment when each of the English players gave a respectful bow or salute.

The match began, and as the players whipped back and forth along the pitch, Bellatrix tried her best to follow the course of the game. One Italian Chaser took a hard hit from a Bludger and tumbled from his broom, landing hard on the sand pit at the bottom of the pitch.

"He'll be feeling that for some time," Voldemort noted dryly, and Bellatrix couldn't help but smirk. England gained a tactical advantage then, with Italy down a Chaser, and they racked up points quickly. In fact, they were leading one hundred to nil by the time Italy scored its first goal. Overhead, the Seekers buzzed about, looking for the Snitch and not seeming to spot it. Surely the match was out of reach for Italy now, Bellatrix thought. But then she saw the Italian Seeker take off as if she'd spotted something.

"She's got it," Bellatrix breathed. "She's going to get the Snitch!"

"Not if our own Seeker has anything to say about it." Voldemort gestured lazily to the English Seeker, a young wizard called Thurmond Morris, who whizzed off in pursuit of his Italian counterpart. The crowd began to holler, to cheer on their respective Seekers as it became obvious that the fate of the match was about to be decided. Bellatrix gripped the arms of her chair tightly, leaning forward to be able to see as the Seekers zoomed down near the ground.

"I thought you had no interest in Quidditch," Voldemort teased, and Bellatrix shot him a surly look.

"I don't," she insisted. "Not really. But it's the end of the match."

"Then it would seem you have at least some interest in Quidditch," Voldemort smirked. Bellatrix dared to roll her eyes at him a bit. Then there was a mighty roar, and she flicked her eyes back to the pitch. She could see at once what the source of the outcry was. The English Seeker, Morris, was soaring about more slowly, holding the Golden Snitch triumphantly aloft.

"With his capture of the Golden Snitch, Seeker Thurmond Morris has ended the match," said the Amplified voice of Rabastan Lestrange, who was calling the play. "The final score is two hundred and fifty to ten. It is a victory for England. Many thanks to our friends from the Italian wizarding community for their efforts today and for joining us in this tournament. Please travel home safely."

The cheering and celebrations continued, and Voldemort shrugged a bit at Bellatrix.

"Well," he said. "That's that, eh? Optics achieved."

"My Lord!" The blustery voice of Abraxas Malfoy came bursting into the box, and Bellatrix flew from her chair and whirled round. Voldemort rose more calmly, more slowly, and at once Bellatrix could tell that he was inside of Abraxas Malfoy's head. Malfoy nodded.

"I just received the news this morning. It's chaos."

"America," Bellatrix said with disbelief. "Roche has done it, then? She's carried out the coup?"

"She tried," Voldemort said sharply. He turned his face to Bellatrix and said, "Sabine Roche is dead. Killed in a battle with anti-Rappaport members of MACUSA."

"The Headquarters are destroyed," Abraxas added. "Our spy survived the battle, but he says the entire interior of the Headquarters were smashed, obliterated, or burned. The two factions have retreated to respective base camps. The Anti-Rappaports have established a new de facto headquarters in Washington, DC. Roche's side - absent her and a few others that were killed - have gone to the city of Philadelphia."

"Will there be war?" Bellatrix asked, and Voldemort nodded.

"Almost certainly. America is a country prone to and ripe for civil strife, both Muggle and Magical. What will happen now is that those who share our goals will fight against those who wish for Muggle integration."

"And do we mean to intervene in any way, My Lord?" asked Abraxas Malfoy. Voldemort shook his head. Behind him, the crowd continued celebrating England's victory, oblivious to the political machinations happening in their leaders' box.

"No. We're not going to step in until they've sorted it out for themselves," Voldemort said firmly. "Let them hack each other to bits. If the movement Roche started emerges victorious, they'll have our unwavering support. If the Anti-Rappaports come out on top, we'll sever all diplomatic ties. I've already had Cygnus Black pull out all financial investments."

"Very good, My Lord. I'll keep in close touch with our spy," Abraxas Malfoy said. "We shall see how their chaos resolves itself."

"If it does not resolve itself," Voldemort said carefully, "We'll consider plans to accommodate American wizarding refugees who value Magical blood purity. And we'll consider plans to pounce on their decimated economy. But all that will come later. Go, Malfoy. I don't want this conversation to linger. Come back to me when you have more information."

"Yes, My Lord," Abraxas said obediently. He turned to Bellatrix and bowed his head. "My Lady."

Once he'd gone, Bellatrix stared up at Voldemort for a moment, trying to feel what he was feeling. Excitement. Anticipation.

"You're not worried," she noted, and he shook his head.

"The instability was evident when we were in New York," he said simply. "There is no easier prey than a fox eating its own tail. We'll use their anarchy to our advantage."

Bellatrix didn't doubt that. And, after today's Quidditch match, she didn't doubt his absolute grip on Britain, either. The ear-splitting cheers of approval were still ringing in her ears by the time they got home to Archer's Edge.

"They adored you," Bellatrix noted as she stripped off the last of her clothes and made her way to the black tiled shower. She turned on the taps and stepped inside, and Voldemort leaned against the wall outside the shower as she began to lather shampoo into her hair.

"I'd never felt anything quite like that," he admitted. "The teeming masses roaring out their devotion to me. It was… it was…"

"Miraculous?" Bellatrix completed for him, and she could see through the foggy glass as he nodded.

"It was affirming. Satisfying. It brought me pleasure unrivaled by anything but you."

Bellatrix stood facing the hot water, letting the conditioner soak into her curls, and she murmured,

"You didn't have to hold my hand."

"I'll do whatever I damned well please, Madam Black." Usually he said those particular words with venom in his tone, but just now they were strangely gentle. Bellatrix rinsed the conditioner from her hair and asked,

"If the Anti-Rappaports win in America, do you really think there will be blood purity refugees?"

"Yes, I imagine so," Voldemort said. "Americans are crass and obnoxious, but it wouldn't be the worst thing if some of them enriched our own pool. Things have gotten a bit inbred these last few generations."

That was true, Bellatrix knew. Her own sister, Narcissa, was seriously considering marrying Lucius Malfoy, whose mother was closely related to Druella Black. The degrees of separation for eligible spouses were shrinking all the time. Perhaps an injection of solidly Magical American blood would be good.

"Of course, we don't want the Anti-Rappaports to win," Voldemort pointed out. "If they do, it sends the message that the cause of integrating Muggles is right and victorious. That is a poisonous message."

"And you don't think intervention is the answer?" Bellatrix asked. He was silent for so long that she stammered, "I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't give political -"

"No, it's not that. It's just… the reality, Bella, is this. Despite the roar of approval you heard today at the Quidditch match, my reign is new and largely untested. Your own sister - well, the Mudblood and his wife - broke into our home. Ophelia Yaxley is dead. I can't be sending my own valuable wands over to America to fight their battles. They've plenty of wands of their own. It's up to them to fight it out. All we can do from here is hope the right side comes out on top."

Bellatrix nodded and scrubbed at her skin with a bar of soap. "I have no doubt, My Lord," she said firmly. "I believe the right side always wins in the end."

Voldemort let out a dark, low laugh, and he told her, "You see? This beautiful optimism you possess… this Dark but unfailing faith in the right path… it is one of the things I love the most about you."

Bellatrix shut off the shower taps and opened the door, giving him a cheeky grin as she asked, "What else do you love most about me?"

He put one hand on her bare hip and the other on her breast.

"Everything," he whispered, bending to touch his lips to hers. He pulled back and said more seriously. "I was honoured to have you beside me today."

"They were cheering you, not me," Bellatrix mumbled, but Voldemort tipped her chin up and kissed her again.

"They were cheering victory," he insisted, "and someday they'll understand how very much you've had to do with that victory. Now, go put on a nightgown, little thing. You're shivering like a leaf."


Archer's Edge, Lake District

19 December 1971

"Bella, do you know how long I've waited for this?"

Bellatrix peeled off her bra and let Rodolphus fondle her breasts as she shook her head.

"No. How long?"

"Since you were fifteen bloody years old," Rodolphus murmured. He bent to kiss Bellatrix, his thick hair falling in front of his bright young eyes as he did. He kissed her carefully, like he was afraid she'd break, and when he stood up, he informed her, "I fell in love with you, and then they all told me I wasn't allowed to have you."

"You can have me, Dolph," Bellatrix whispered. She snaked her arms around his shoulders, and he played with the serpent necklace she wore for a moment. He dragged his thumb over the little onyx stones and whispered,

"He wouldn't have let me have you. He'd have killed me if he'd ever seen us like this."

"But he's gone, Dolph," Bellatrix assured him. She met his bright eyes and nodded. "I've loved you, too, you know. This whole long while. You've worked so very hard. You can have me now."

"Bella…" Rodolphus shut his eyes and let out a long, shaking sigh, his hands trailing up and down Bellatrix's ribcage as she watched him go hard. His cock swelled up slowly as he fondled her body, and Bellatrix swallowed hard with want.

"I need you inside of me, Dolph," she told him, and he pushed her down onto the bed she'd shared with Voldemort before his disappearance. She moaned and arched her back when he pushed his cock into her, his hips rolling and his hands grasping. Bellatrix moaned like a whore. She liked this. She liked him. She came harder than she'd ever done, her skin sheened with sweat as she held fast to Rodolphus' lean forearms. When he came inside of her, he groaned her name over and over, chanting it like a prayer.

Bella, he was saying, like the name had been his to say for ages. Sweet Bella, beautiful Bella, my Bella.

Bellatrix sat straight up, her curls plastered to her face with cold sweat as she gasped. She felt acutely nauseated, and she covered her face with her hands as she desperately tried to erase the vision she'd just dreamed.

"Get out of my bed," came a whisper from beside her, and when Bellatrix peeled her hands away from her face, she saw Voldemort's angry, stone features glaring up at her in the dim light.

"What?" she asked, and he sat up slowly, tipping his head.

"Are you deaf, stupid, or disobedient?" he snapped. "I told you to get out of my bed. Now."

Bellatrix shook her head desperately and reached for his hand. He yanked it away, looking repulsed, and Bellatrix assured him, "My Lord, I didn't come up with that?"

"No?" He sneered at her and shrugged. "So it's my head that cooks up such things, is it?"

Bellatrix didn't answer him. She just obeyed him, doing as he'd twice commanded. She rose from the bed, feeling cold at once when she pulled herself from the weighty blankets. She wrapped her heavy velvet robe around herself and padded silently from the bedroom, making her way down the winding stairs to their offices. She opened the door to her own office and used her wand to light the lamps, pulling herself up onto the wooden bench beneath the windows.

She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, leaning against the stone wall as she stared out onto the moonlit moor. If it had been her own mind to dream up the explicit vision of Rodolphus, then she was very sorry for that. She didn't want Rodolphus. She hoped with all her heart that her husband knew that. She only wanted him. She only wanted Lord Voldemort. All the others were useless and empty and ugly and foolish compared to him. They were all inadequate and weak. There was only him.

"Bellatrix."

She turned her head at the sound of her name and was surprised to see Voldemort in the threshold of the office, a glass of red wine in each of his hands. He'd tied his own robe on, and as he stepped into Bellatrix's office and handed her a glass of wine, he noted,

"It was our bed. That's why I needed you to leave. I'm sorry."

Bellatrix just stared at her wine without taking a sip. She swirled it around a little and murmured,

"I could only ever want you."

"I know," Voldemort sighed. "You would have tolerated Rodolphus Lestrange; you would never have loved him. And you were repulsed by Tarquin Avery when you kissed him two years ago."

"I kissed him because I was empty," Bellatrix argued. "You'd left me hollow."

Voldemort sipped from his wine and nodded. "Well, I'm sorry for that, too."

There was a long silence, and finally, Bellatrix suggested helplessly, "Perhaps if you made love to me tonight, you could try and -"

"If I make love to you tonight, all I'm going to hear is your voice telling that boy that I was gone, and so it was fine for him to fuck you."

Bellatrix studied her husband's sharp features in the moonlight as he took another sip of wine. She set her own glass down on the wooden ledge and reminded him gently,

"It wasn't real. It was no more real than that dream you had where I died."

Voldemort smirked a little. "I can't quite figure which was worse."

"Does it matter? Neither was real." Bellatrix swung her legs off the bench and put her hands against the front of Voldemort's robe. She met his eyes in the moonlight and promised, "There's only you. There could only ever be you."

He'd said similar things to her before, she knew. She could feel uncertainty rolling off him, the idea that Bellatrix would someday realise she'd married an old man and would go for someone younger. Someone who would give her a child and be young enough to help raise it properly.

"I don't want a child," Bellatrix scoffed, shaking her head. "Not ever. I mean no disrespect, My Lord, but I don't want one from you or from anybody else. And what of it if you're forty-four? You're the ruler of all of wizarding Britain!"

"I'm very nearly forty-five," Voldemort pointed out, but Bellatrix tightened her fingers on his robe and reminded him seriously,

"During today's meeting with Malfoy and Yaxley, you told all of us that wizarding America is on the brink of complete collapse, and that you mean to shovel up the ashes for yourself."

"Mmm-hmm," Voldemort nodded. Bellatrix raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

"Do you not suppose, My Lord, that I find your ambition and your abilities powerfully attractive? Please. Please, look into my mind."

She opened herself up entirely then, feeling the dullest hint of his Legilimency as he sorted through the things she presented him.

Bellatrix lying awake at night in the Slytherin dormitory, her journal clutched to her chest as she waited for him to answer her. The flush of arousal and admiration she'd felt after seeing him kill Albus Dumbledore. Standing on their balcony in Spain, staring at him in the sunset and marveling at who and what he was. His hands pinning her wrists to the bed as he kissed her neck and ground himself against her body. Need. Love. Want. Fear.

Voldemort pulled out of her head and sipped the last of his wine, setting the empty glass on Bellatrix's desk.

"I won't kill him," he said, and Bellatrix knew he meant Rodolphus Lestrange. "I can't kill him, because… because for all the acrimonious thoughts I have toward him, he is a loyal servant. But I won't attend his stupid wedding."

Bellatrix chewed her lip and tried to sound respectful as she pointed out, "My Lord, if you don't go, he'll think he's done something to fall out of your favour. His father will be devastated, and so will Marya's. You've already said you would go. Everyone will whisper and gossip… about you. Please… you're too important for that. To let one dream ruin -"

He cut her off then, suddenly snatching at her wrists and yanking her toward the window. He sat on the wooden bench, beside Bellatrix's untouched glass of wine, and Bellatrix stood between his knees.

"Help me get rid of it," Voldemort said simply, and she knew exactly what he meant. He needed her to help erase the nightmare, to erase his jealousy. Bellatrix nodded and asked gently,

"Please, My Lord, will you please allow me to use my mouth on you?"

He nodded a little, pulling his robe open and yanking his pyjama trousers down a little. Bellatrix sank to her knees, pulling her trousers down more so she could rub at his thighs. He seemed to like that, the way she was caressing him, but his cock stayed soft where it lay flopped over. Bellatrix kissed him there, lapping her tongue around his wrinkled member. Voldemort's hands tightened on the edge of the bench, and his breath shook a little, but even as Bellatrix played with him, nothing happened. She used her hands, touching him everywhere that had ever triggered pleasure for him. When it was obviously not going to work, she set his flaccid cock down gently and stroked it for a moment, raising her eyes to him. She didn't need to look at him to feel the confused embarrassment coiling from his mind into hers.

"My Lord, may I have my wand, please?" Bellatrix asked, but he scoffed and shook his head.

"I'm not going to let you suck me off with an artificial erection, Bellatrix. If I can't get it up, then I'll just go back to bed. I'm sorry."

He shoved himself roughly back into his pyjamas, yanking them up and snatching Bellatrix's full glass of wine from the bench beside him. As he drank deeply from it, Bellatrix knew what the problem was. He couldn't stop replaying the image in his mind of Rodolphus Lestrange having sex with Bellatrix, and how the blazes was he meant to get an erection with that swirling through his head?

"Would you like me to Obliviate you?" Bellatrix asked, rising slowly from her knees. "I would be very careful."

"No." Voldemort set the half-empty glass of wine down and raked his fingers over his close-cropped hair. He finally reached for Bellatrix's fingers, rubbing at them and studying them in the moonlight as he said the same thing he'd said in the meeting earlier. "When America's wizarding community is really and truly broken, then I'm going to funnel wands and money into the Pro-Rappaport side. Lots of money. More money than they could imagine having."

"Because then when they win," Bellatrix nodded, "They'll be indebted to you. You'll be… what's the word? An emperor."

Voldemort tipped his head and noted, "There was a time when the American Muggle colonies belonged to the British Muggles. If they can do such a thing, surely I can."

"No doubt, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded. She winced and hesitated as she asked, "Do you plan on attending Marya's wedding? If not, I should probably let her parents know."

"We'll go," Voldemort said, pursing her lips. "We'll go so that I can see him with his arms wrapped around some poor little girl who can't do any better. And so that he can see you with your arms wrapped around his master."

"That sounds perfect, My Lord," Bellatrix said firmly. She could still feel his humiliation about the aborted relations they'd initiated, so she dragged her fingers along his beard and whispered, "You're very handsome in the moonlight."

He didn't roll his eyes or question her or tell her she was flattering him. He couldn't, because he could feel her sincerity. Bellatrix studied his eyes and his cheekbones, his nose and his beard and the part of his chest peeking out from his robe, and she felt everything start to come alive inside of her. Voldemort squared his jaw, and Bellatrix said quietly,

"I get wet when I look at you."

"Do you?" he asked, reaching beneath the hem of her nightgown and pushing her knickers aside a little. Bellatrix nodded as his fingertips glided along her satin folds, the place where she was warm and damp just from staring at him. He snatched her right hand out of the air and smashed it against the front of his pyjama trousers, and Bellatrix felt at once that he'd gone hard. She smirked up and him and suggested,

"Upstairs?"

"Mmm-hmm." He pulled his hand from her quim and snared his fingers through hers, leading her out of her office and leaving the wine glasses behind.


Archer's Edge, Lake District

21 December, 1971

"My Lord, are you quite certain I should wear this?"

Bellatrix's voice was uncertain as she called out from her dressing boudoir. Voldemort smirked as he buttoned up his tuxedo waistcoat, and he called back,

"I'm assuming you mean the tiara."

"The crown, yes," Bellatrix said rather dryly. Voldemort shrugged his formal black jacket on and told her,

"You are the consort of a man who currently rules all of wizarding Britain unquestioned, and may well soon have other territories to his name. You are an integral part of my government, a valued soldier, and my wife. Have you some sort of philosophical objection to a marker of your status?"

"I should think that merely being on your arm is a marker of my status," Bellatrix grumbled, but after a moment she sighed and admitted, "All right. It doesn't look half-bad once it's on."

"Let me see." Voldemort bent down to brush his wand over his shoes, to give them extra shine, and when he glanced up, he was speechless.

He'd often thought that she couldn't get any prettier, but here she was. He'd instructed her to have a showstopping gown made, and she'd obeyed him thoroughly. The plunging neckline of the gown revealed the elegant swell of her breasts. The sleeves and bodice were made of a material that looked suspiciously like black snakeskin, slick and shiny and scaled. The skirts, black raw silk with beaded trim, were gathered and swooped just so before gathering in a bustle behind her. Bellatrix's makeup was stark and aggressive compared to what she usually wore; she'd lined her eyes with heavy black kohl and had drawn her scarlet lipstick on quite carefully. Her hair was tied up high upon her head, but the curls had been allowed to tumble back down. She'd used smoothing creme or a spell, he reckoned, for her usually wild hair was tamed into perfect corkscrews. She wore her serpent necklace, of course, and pushed into her elaborate hairstyle was the new tiara Voldemort had had made for her. It was actually relatively simple, for it was the mere presence of such jewelry that was important. It was a smooth, sweeping cage of dull, brushed silver - no stones in sight. And yet it took Voldemort's breath away entirely.

She smirked where she stood and extended a hand to him. He ignored her and rose, ensuring his shoes had been properly shined. He knew she could feel his astonishment. He knew she could tell that he found her heart-wrenchingly beautiful. So for a moment, he said nothing at all. Bellatrix stepped right up before him and murmured,

"We should go… we'll be late."

"Of course we'll be late," Voldemort snapped quietly. "They must learn to wait for me."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes a little. "So you'll keep poor Marya Goyle, the daughter of my mother's sister, waiting in her wedding gown just so they all squirm?"

"It's nothing to do with squirming," Voldemort informed her. "It's everything to do with the idea that things happen on my time, when it is convenient for me. Not when it is convenient for them."

"All right," Bellatrix smiled. "So, how shall we pass the time before we go?"

"Well, I've more than half a mind to hike those skirts of yours up and slam you against the wall for a few minutes," Voldemort said, "but I have a feeling you'd be a bit cross with me mussing your hair and makeup."

Bellatrix giggled softly and glanced down at herself. "Are you certain I look all right?"

She wasn't fishing for a compliment, he could tell. She was genuinely nervous that she'd embarrass him, that she wouldn't be enough for him at an event like this. Voldemort frowned and forcibly shoved that thought away from both their minds. Bellatrix looked up at him, seeming a little confused.

"Did you just…"

Voldemort's mouth fell open and he shook his head a little. "I didn't want you thinking that you weren't enough. You're beautiful. More than beautiful."

"But you forced that idea away," Bellatrix marveled. She blinked a few times and asked him, "Do you suppose you could do that to me all the time? Make certain thoughts go away?"

Voldemort reckoned that if he could do that to her, she could do it to him, too. That was at once terrifying and intriguing. He pursed his lips and instructed her,

"Destroy what you feel from me."

She looked a little confused, but then he thought for a moment about the awful dream they'd shared a few nights earlier. He could hear Rodolphus Lestrange's breath huffing as he took Bellatrix's body. He could see her breasts swaying on the bed - their bed - as she stared up at Rodolphus. He felt positively ill with jealousy, with uncertainty and insecurity and anger. Then, with a slight whoosh, those sensations had gone. His rising pulse and quickening breath slowed and quieted, and the rage that had been boiling inside of him subsided.

"Interesting." Voldemort brushed his knuckles over Bellatrix's collarbone and said, "I suppose we don't really know what any of the limits are. Even that story in the book from your mother's house gave very little detail."

"I've done more research, My Lord," Bellatrix told him. "I've looked into mental links, mind bondings, everything like that."

"And what did you find?" Voldemort asked. Bellatrix sighed heavily and adjusted his bow tie a little.

"Nothing," she admitted. "Just a few more legends, most even less detailed than the one about the Moreaus. Any precedent seems to be exceedingly rare and very poorly documented."

"I can see why," Voldemort admitted. "I'm not about to go documenting this."

"No, indeed not," Bellatrix nodded. She frowned and said, "I was trying to think of examples in history where someone's magic might have been augmented by a powerful relationship with an ally."

"And who did you have in mind?" Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow, but Bellatrix didn't need to answer him aloud. He could feel her thought plain as day.

Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald.

"Perhaps that's why he couldn't kill him," Voldemort mused. "Or wouldn't. There were rumours that they were lovers."

"Do you think they were, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked. Voldemort licked his bottom lip carefully and said,

"I vividly remember when Dumbledore took Grindelwald down. It was legendary from the moment it happened. But I remember thinking to myself… what sort of a legendary duel takes a dangerous international criminal and puts him in his own tower? Why wasn't Grindelwald dead? At the time, I thought perhaps Dumbledore was just too much a coward to do it, but over time I started wondering if it was him. If it was Grindelwald that was the problem. There would be no real way, I suppose, of finding out whether any sort of…"

He trailed off then, for of course there was a way. Gellert Grindelwald was still alive, housed in Nurmengard. Bellatrix nodded and asked quietly,

"Do you think you'd actually gain anything helpful from speaking with him?"

"No," Voldemort said suddenly, shaking his head. "No, because even if he and Dumbledore had some sort of mental link, look at how it ended. No, we have nothing to learn from them. We're on our own."

"I'm all right with that," Bellatrix whispered, and Voldemort bent to press his lips to her forehead.

"I've kept your poor cousin Marya waiting long enough," he said. "Let's go."


Goyle Estate, Norwich

21 December 1971

"My Lord! My Lady." Mikhail Goyle bowed deeply where he stood in the foyer of his own grand home.

"My goodness, Goyle," Voldemort said lightly, "Why aren't you in the ceremony? We were very certain we'd have to sneak in and stand at the back."

Goyle's face went deep red, and he stammered. "Well… well, of course we weren't about to begin without you, My Lord."

"Oh, I do hope we haven't made anyone impatient," Voldemort drawled, and Goyle shook his head wildly.

"No! It's no problem, My Lord. Please, if you'll follow me just this way… My Lady. What an honour it is, truly, to have you both here. Roger Lestrange was elated to hear you'd be attending our children's wedding."

The man was babbling out of a tangle of nerves, Voldemort knew. He himself stayed cool and calm as he guided Bellatrix into the great ballroom. It had been dividing into halves, and they were led to the part where chairs had been lined up for the ceremony. Christmas decorations adorned the space, and Voldemort glanced around for a moment before pausing in the doorway.

"P-Please rise and give due attention to the Dark Lord and Madam Black," called Mikhail Goyle. Suddenly the whispers and murmurs in the room went utterly silent, and everyone in attendance flew to their feet. The witches descended into polite curtsies, and all the wizards bowed submissively. Voldemort nodded and said in a tight, cold voice.

"Good evening. Please sit."

He followed Goyle up to the front row of the chairs, and suddenly he remembered being at weddings with Bellatrix where they'd hidden in the back. Things were different now. He owned every space he occupied. This wedding was no longer about Rodolphus Lestrange and Marya Goyle. It was about Lord Voldemort. As Bellatrix sat beside him, she flashed a warm smile to her mother and her sister Narcissa. Lucius Malfoy was seated with the Black family, Voldemort noticed, and he thought Abraxas had probably been right that Lucius and Narcissa would quickly wind up together permanently. Dahlia Lestrange had come and was seated in the front row; Rabastan would undoubtedly be accompanying his brother. Dahlia was round and heavy with pregnancy now, and Bellatrix gave her friend a happy smile as she patted her own flat stomach.

Suddenly a flourish of trumpets sounded from the rear of the room, and Voldemort watched with muted interest during the fanfare as Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange and the ugly, bulky sister of the bride came out on the raised platform. Tudor Yaxley, who would be officiating, made his way to the centre of the platform. All three took a moment to nod politely to Voldemort. Then everyone was meant to stand, for the bride was being escorted down the short aisle. Mikhail Goyle and his wife, Bellatrix's aunt Jolena, walked arm-in-arm ahead of their daughter.

Oh, good. I managed not to outshine her, came a sudden thought from Bellatrix's mind. Voldemort turned to glance at her, and Bellatrix was admiring the long, elegant lace gown and veil her cousin wore.

Nonsense, Voldemort thought back, sending his mind straight into hers. You're terrifyingly gorgeous, Bella. She's just a girl in a white dress.

Bellatrix appeared to be stifling a laugh then, and she did a fair job masking it straight into a warm smile. When the Goyles passed Voldemort, they bowed and curtsied, and Voldemort was rather surprised to see the bride herself pause and curtsy to him. He just nodded to her, the way he'd done to the others, and then everyone was meant to sit.

The ceremony seemed unnecessarily drawn-out for something that wasn't permanently binding, though of course Voldemort had sworn his soul to Bellatrix's for all perpetuity in their parlour one night. He wondered briefly which ceremony bore more meaning, and he couldn't help feeling a little guilty for never giving Bellatrix any of this fanfare.

I never wanted the dress. I wanted you, he felt her think, and he shut his eyes against how powerfully that notion struck him. Very much on instinct, he reached for her hand and threaded their fingers together, dragging his thumb over hers.

He felt no jealousy toward Rodolphus Lestrange now. Seeing the boy, scraggly and so weak in comparison to Voldemort himself, made their shared dream seem very silly. Rodolphus giggled like a child when he struggled to fit Marya's ring on properly. Marya stared at him like he was a work of art, and he seemed to have eyes only for his new bride. If he was thinking about Bellatrix in any way, it was far from obvious. Voldemort was watching two people who were in love marry one another. Whether one of them had once coveted his own wife had no bearing now. Rodolphus Lestrange, he knew, was no threat to him. He was no threat to his power, and he was no threat to his marriage. As if she could feel all of Voldemort's sensations and wished to ease them, Bellatrix squeezed at Voldemort's hand and thought very purposely,

Ego Uxorem, My Lord.

He smiled a little to himself, wanting nothing more then than to take her home and kiss every inch of her skin. Instead, he made himself clap with the others whilst Rodolphus and Marya kissed. For some reason, it helped to see the boy kissing a witch who was not Bellatrix. Voldemort had half a mind to cast some wandless fertility spells on Marya so that she'd conceive straight away, but he thought the better of it.

During the reception, Voldemort discovered that he and Bellatrix had been given the places of honour at the centre of the head table. Those places, of course, were almost always reserved for the bride and groom, but tonight Voldemort was the most important person in the room. Mikhail Goyle was the first to give a toast.

"Marya, my dear and beautiful daughter, I know you will be happy with Rodolphus, that your lives will be fruitful, and that you will do right by your heritage and your people. Let us all raise our glasses with well-wishes for Marya and Rodolphus, and most especially to thank the Dark Lord and Madam Black for their presence here tonight. Cheers."

"Cheers!" called everyone in the room. Bellatrix sighed a little from beside Voldemort, very evidently uncomfortable with how much attention they were getting. Roger Lestrange's speech was nearly identical to the father of the bride's. Voldemort sensed that they all wanted him to say something, so he slid his chair back and rose, his glass of wine in hand. Everyone in the room looked halfway between awed and terrified as he turned his attention to Rodolphus and Marya.

"Rodolphus Lestrange," Voldemort said smoothly. "There was once a time when everyone was very certain you were going to marry a witch named Bellatrix Black."

Bellatrix sucked in air hair beside Voldemort, and the air in the room felt incredibly weighty all of a sudden. Rodolphus looked frightened, probably remembering the time Voldemort had directly threatened to kill him for thinking about Bellatrix. Voldemort tipped his head and continued,

"Lucky for me, and lucky for Bellatrix, and lucky for you, and lucky for Marya… those days are gone. Things work out the way they're meant to do. You marrying Marya Goyle is what was meant to happen, you understand?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question, but Rodolphus still hesitated a half second before he nodded. "Yes, My Lord."

"Marya." Voldemort turned his attention to the pale-faced, pretty bride beside Rodolphus. "Make this wizard happy. Make him love you more each day than he did the day before. It sounds maudlin, I know, but I promise you that it is possible. I speak from experience."

He glanced over his shoulder to Bellatrix and then raised his glass of wine. "To the health, longevity, loyalty, and happiness of Rodolphus and Marya Lestrange. Cheers."

"Cheers." Everyone in the room said, but this time they all sounded more than a little afraid.

Did you have to do it like that? Bellatrix's thought flew at him, wild and almost angry. He scowled at her for a half second and whispered,

"Yes. I did. Eat your food."

An hour later, he had her out on the dance floor, moving smoothly with her and remembering other times they'd danced.

"The first time, the first real time, was the eighteenth of June, 1969," Bellatrix noted quietly. When he frowned in confusion, she specified, "It was the first time I'd ever cast a Cruciatus Curse, and afterward you gave me a necklace and you turned on the Wireless and asked me to dance with you."

He quirked up half his mouth. "I suppose I thought it was that first Christmas party."

"We didn't dance that night," Bellatrix reminded him. "We just talked and kissed."

"Nothing wrong with talking and kissing," Voldemort insisted, swaying carefully. "What did your mother and sister think of your tiara?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes and smiled a bit. "Narcissa's jealous, of course. Lucius is the son of the Minister, but she's jealous just the same. I think my mother is terrified that someday she'll regret having called me your concubine."

"It was a foolish thing for her to say," Voldemort nodded. Bellatrix looked right at him and whispered,

"I'm craving something."

"Are you?" Voldemort pressed into her mind with ordinary Legilimency and asked her, "What is it that you want, little thing?"

In her mind, he had her tied up to their bed and was teasing her body. Using heat and cold from his wand, kissing her breasts until she squirmed, making her finish by using his mouth. And he'd taken Girding Potion, he could tell. He would take her, then tease her, then take her again. Voldemort pulled out of Bellatrix's mind and huffed,

"It would indeed seem as you are… craving something."

"I'll take whatever you'll give me," Bellatrix murmured wickedly, and Voldemort tipped his head.

"I'll give you every bit of what you just showed me. And more. Let's finish this dance, and then we'll go home, and by the morning you'll be hoarse and sore and needing a day off from your secretarial duties."


Archer's Edge, Lake District

21 December 1971

Bellatrix's breath shook through her teeth as she stared up at the ceiling. She sank into the feeling of the ropes around her wrists and ankles, the ties that were binding her to the heavy wooden posts of the bed.

"Comfortable?" asked Lord Voldemort, and when Bellatrix nodded silently, she felt his weight sink onto the bed beside her. He looked awfully full of himself as he showed her the bottle of Girding Potion he'd taken from their stores. He popped open the top and tipped the bottle back into his mouth, chasing it with a glass of water he had on the table beside the bed. He set the glass and the bottle back down, and suddenly Bellatrix could feel the vibration of stamina and energy flowing through him. She shut her eyes, a little overwhelmed by it all.

Suddenly she could feel his breath on her lips, and she realised he'd lowered his face to hers. He touched his mouth slowly against Bellatrix's and murmured,

"I'm going to wear out every single part of you."

That made Bellatrix moan quietly, and she arched up toward him, seeking contact and attention. But he just stood from the bed and slowly started taking off his tuxedo. Bellatrix watched him, growing more aroused with every piece he removed. His bow tie, his jacket, his waistcoat and dress shirt… the trousers and socks and shoes and underwear… each piece was removed carefully, slowly, and put on a nearby armchair. Once Voldemort was naked, his half-hard cock looking more eager by the moment, he came back to the bed. He sat beside Bellatrix and dragged his fingers around her breast as he informed her,

"If you want me to stop - really and truly want me to stop - then tell me Enough. You understand?"

"I understand, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded. She wouldn't want him to stop, she thought. She sucked in air as his fingertips traced the curve of her left breast and tweaked her nipple. He bent down and began lathing his tongue over her right nipple whilst his hand cupped her more carefully on the other side. His mouth moved smoothly and gently at first. His hand kneaded at her flesh, squeezing her just enough to elicit a little cry. His tongue just rubbed and massaged at her nipple, and soon enough it was as though Bellatrix had fallen into a trance.

It was rhythmic and careful and not at all impatient. In his mind, she could feel a deep and urgent arousal, but he was biding his time. He was worshipping her breasts now, his hand starting to knead more deeply and his mouth transitioning to a suckling motion. He even dragged his teeth over her nipple, which only served to make Bellatrix yank at her bindings. She wanted to course her fingernails over his short hair. She wanted to stroke his beard. But all she could do was whisper desperately,

"My Lord… My Lord…"

He surprised her then by straddling her and pushing his erect cock down the centre of her chest. He pulled her small, soft breasts around the shaft of his cock and started to rock his hips, his hands squeezing at her flesh tightly. Bellatrix whimpered at the sight of his tip hurtling toward her over and over again. She wanted him to come all over her, she realised. She wanted it on her neck, on her face, even.

"Please…" she whispered, and Voldemort quickened his hips.

"Please what?"

"Please put it all over me," Bellatrix begged. Voldemort breathlessly released her breasts and stroked a few times at his cock, tipping his head back. Bellatrix felt his orgasm detonate, powerful and hot and white in his body. His seed leapt forth in milky ropes and landed everywhere. From Bellatrix's forehead to her sternum, she suddenly had trails of his come all over her skin. She licked her bottom lip and tasted the bitter metallic tang of it, moaning deeply as she realised how aroused he was by what he'd done. He stared down at her, his fingers shaking as he touched the pool of his seed that had gathered near the crook of her neck.

It was too much. His intense pleasure, physical and mental, combined with Bellatrix's own sensations to push her straight over the edge. She came right there, without her womanhood ever being touched. She came whilst covered in Voldemort's essence, with him hovering above her. He could feel it, she knew. He could feel the way her body was clenching and cinching, the way her mind had been flooded with satisfaction.

"Tergeo," she heard him incant, his wand trembling a little as it dragged through the air above her. The white fluid that had speckled her was siphoned up, and Voldemort's throat bobbed visibly as he set his wand back down. He slithered further down the bed until he was between Bellatrix's legs. She drove her head back against the pillow as she realised what he meant to do. He bent and started kissing the inside of her right knee, his lips trailing up her leg one kiss at a time. The scratch of his beard on her inner thigh was intense and wonderful, and Bellatrix pulled again at the ropes that were loosely binding her to the bed.

Voldemort put his hands on Bellatrix's hips and pulled his tongue up the inside of her upper thigh. When she hissed with want, he asked quietly,

"Do you like it when I do these things to you?"

"More than anything, My Lord," Bellatrix said honestly. He raised his eyes to her and tipped his head, which was very attractive given where he was.

"You like it even though I'm just a dirty old man?" he asked, his voice halfway between mockery and uncertainty. Bellatrix scoffed and insisted,

"You are not a dirty old man. You are the Dark Lord himself, and I love you very much. Now, please, please, please will you keep going?"

He chuckled, his voice a low rumble against her skin. He pulled his tongue from the bottom of her womanhood all the way to the top, and Bellatrix's back arched at once. She yanked at her wrists, desperate to hold his head. He pulled his tongue up again, so slowly that Bellatrix wondered how he was finding the self-control to pace himself. Again, and again, and again he did it. Slow, deep, careful. Finally, when Bellatrix was panting and thrashing, he sucked on her clit. He repeated the process, pulling up in a long strong and then sucking a little. His fingers tightened on her hips, and Bellatrix suddenly realised that he liked this. He liked the taste of her, the musky, heady feel of her near his mouth. His cock was throbbing desperately, she could tell. He needed to come again, but he wanted her to finish first.

That wasn't a problem, as it turned out. With enough of the deep stroking and little suckling motions, Bellatrix had no choice but to finish. She was breathless and thirsty and warm as her body climaxed around his tongue. She was flush with satisfaction, then immediately filled with the intense need her husband's body possessed. He sat up and quickly moved to undo the ties around her ankles, releasing her legs so that he could bend her knees. He arranged himself above her and pushed straight into her sopping entrance, his hips bucking frantically at once.

Bellatrix remembered the time that he'd seemed out of control, after he'd set the Basilisk loose on Hogwarts. That had been different; the sex had felt robotic and necessary. There was something fundamentally different about their mutual arousal tonight.

"It is different," Voldemort whispered from above her. "Even with the Girding Potion, it's different, because… Bella, don't you know I'd make love to you forever if I could?"

Her eyes welled unexpectedly at that. His hips stilled and his face contorted a little as he came again. The sensation of his climax hurtled straight into Bellatrix's body, though she experienced it only as a wave of pleasure. He pulled out of her body and picked up his glass of water from the table. He took a sip and carefully propped Bellatrix up to give her some. It still dribbled down her chin and onto her chest, and Voldemort set the glass down, seizing the opportunity to lap the water up off her skin. Bellatrix squirmed a little and admitted,

"My arms are getting unpleasantly sore."

Voldemort Vanished the ropes with wandless magic, once again amazing Bellatrix with his seemingly endless skill. He bent to kiss her forehead and whispered,

"Roll over, little thing, onto your stomach."

She obeyed him, curious about what he meant to do. She sighed and relaxed her head against the pillow when she felt his lips planting careful kissed all over her back. His hands kneaded at her backside and thighs, and he kept at it for so long that Bellatrix thought she might fall asleep. But then her hips were being pulled up and back, and Voldemort pushed his cock into her from where he was kneeling.

This angle was intense, Bellatrix realised at once. She was almost flat against the bed, so his thrusts went straight for the front of her quim. The grinding sensation was so pleasurable that she found herself grasping at the blankets and crying out loudly into the pillow. She wasn't usually this loud during sex, she knew, but she couldn't stay silent. Not when each thrust was so deep and powerful. She felt Voldemort holding fast to her backside. She heard his own voice in a low whine behind her. But her thoughts were a blur, blending with his into a chaotic white swirl of thrill and bliss.

Beautiful girl, she could feel him thinking. Powerful, beautiful, intelligent, wondrous little thing. Mine. Perfect and all mine.

She sent an idea back toward him with every bit of focus she could muster. She projected toward him how much she adored each part of him. His body, with all its markers of having lived nearly forty-five years. His mind, sharp and quick and unyielding and brilliant. His magic, unparalleled and terrifying. His ability to woo and shape others. His politicking. The way he'd taken to writing her letters in her journal each day. Even if they were short, she valued them. Just yesterday, he'd written a single line that had meant the whole world to her.

Good morning, little thing. You are positively everything to me.

Even now, as he pushed into her at exactly the right angle, Bellatrix thought of the little note and found herself on the verge of tears. Voldemort leaned down, his hips still pumping, and he whispered into her ear,

"I love you, Bella."

She just nodded, unable to stave off her climax any longer. She pounded at the mattress with her fists and practically screamed into the pillow, feeling completely exhausted as the orgasm rocked through her and then subsided. She squealed and wriggled her hips as Voldemort groaned loudly and filled her once again, his seed pumping into her for the second time as he growled her name from between clenched teeth.

After they'd both come down from the overwhelming high, Bellatrix slowly rolled over, and Voldemort lay beside her. He poked at his softened cock a little and murmured,

"Even with Girding Potion, I believe that's all I have, little thing."

"That was plenty," Bellatrix assured him. He turned his head toward her and smirked, twining one of her curls around his finger.

"You think I went too far with the little toast I gave to Rodolphus Lestrange," he said, and Bellatrix huffed a little sigh.

"I think you were threatening him at his own wedding, My Lord," Bellatrix said, "which seemed unnecessary because he is so very evidently happy with Marya. But I understand why you did it."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Voldemort asked, quirking up and eyebrow, and Bellatrix nodded.

"It was yet another opportunity to ensure that your authority is unquestioned. Humiliation is a powerful tactic for yielding obedience."

"Quite so." Voldemort looked very pleased with her, and he tucked her hair behind her ear as he said,

"I think a British delegate should go back to New York. Around mid-January."

"You think that by then the Pro-Rappaports will have won?" Bellatrix asked, and Voldemort shook his head.

"No. I think that, even with our injections of funding, the Pro-Rappaports will lose. I want to extend the message of goodwill to any American pro-Rappaport refugees. I want to establish a Department of Refugee Resettlement at our Ministry, and I'd like for you to head it up."

Bellatrix suddenly realised exactly what he meant. She swallowed hard and said, "It wouldn't do for Lord Voldemort himself to go appealing to potential refugees, but if his wife, who's heading the new Ministry department, went…"

Bellatrix felt a bit queasy. She shut her eyes and shook her head.

"My Lord, I can't fly there and back all alone. I can't… meeting with the families? Representing your government? Surely you can send Malfoy, or Yaxley, or -"

"I only trust you," Voldemort said sharply. "I need to stay here. It'll be a quick trip. I know you can do this. I trust you, Bella. I have complete faith in you."

Bellatrix gnawed on her bottom lip and nodded. She pulled herself from the bed and started toward the bathroom, thinking she was in desperate need of a shower.

"You'll have to help me understand more about navigating the Muggle world on my own," she told him as she opened the bathroom door.

"You'll be more than adequately briefed," Voldemort assured her. He looked her right in the eye and said again, "You are the only one I trust to carry out this mission."

Bellatrix leaned on the threshold of the bathroom door. She felt terrible fear and anxiety rippling through her, but then the sensations were forcefully shoved away. He'd done that, she knew. She smiled crookedly and said,

"I wonder if our minds will be this connected over so great a distance."

Voldemort shrugged. "Only one way to find out. Go take your shower."

Author's Note: Okay, I was so anxious to get this chapter written that I found a way to do it in the backseat of a car, at night, on an iPhone. SO! I promise this will be my last sloppy chapter before I get back to my beloved laptop. Haha. Thanks so very much for your patience while I've been on vacation. Thanks as always for reading and for any feedback.


Heathrow Airport, London

13 January 1971

"You're going to be just fine," Voldemort murmured as he and Bellatrix walked through the terminal's double front doors. Beside him, Bellatrix was nervous. He could feel it rolling off of her like ocean waves. She just nodded and said quietly,

"I'll do my very best to serve you properly, My Lord."

"No more talk like that," Voldemort warned her, for they were nearing the check-in desk. He'd booked her on a different airline this time than the last time round, so he wasn't entirely certain if the procedures would be the same. That was why he'd insisted on accompanying her all the way to the gate, as far as he possibly could. She would be fine, of course. He had all the confidence in the world in her. Just the same, he marched straight up to the desk and told the Muggle woman,

"Checking into Flight 986 to New York. The surname is Black."

"Very good, Mr Black," grinned the Muggle woman, flicking through a file of alphabetised tickets. She pulled one out and glanced from Voldemort to Bellatrix. Her shiny grin faltered for a moment as she said, "I'm so sorry, but I've only got the one. Are you quite certain you've booked two seats?"

"No; I'm not going," Voldemort said quickly. "I'm just walking her to the gate."

"My, what a caring father you have, Miss Black," smiled the woman. Voldemort's mouth fell open in horror, but he said nothing. He felt his heart race with anger and knew that Bellatrix would feel it, too. The oblivious Muggle woman said cheerfully, "If I could just see your passport for verification, Miss Black?"

Bellatrix rather slammed her forged Muggle passport on the counter and snarled, "Husband."

The Muggle woman took the passport and blinked, her pasted-on smile suddenly very uncertain. "I beg your pardon?"

"He's not my father. He's my husband," Bellatrix said, though Voldemort mentally willed her to just be silent and ignore the Muggle's ignorance.

"Oh. Oh, dear me. I do apologise. How very presumptuous of me," the Muggle woman blathered. Her cheeks were red as she flicked her gaze from Bellatrix's passport down to the ticket and up again. She handed the ticket and the passport back to Bellatrix and said tightly, "You'll be departing from Gate Twelve today, Mrs Black. Have a safe journey."

Bellatrix snatched her ticket and passport and huffed away, and Voldemort strode quickly after her. Once they were walking down the wide terminal corridor, he murmured gently to her,

"How was she to know? I'm a greying man without a wedding ring who shares your last name."

"Ha! So that obviously means you're my father," Bellatrix scoffed. She shoved her passport into her Expanded carpetbag and reminded him, "Age is utterly irrelevant; my father's seven years younger than you!"

Voldemort gritted his teeth a bit. He didn't need reminding of the fact that he'd just turned forty-five whilst Bellatrix's own father was only thirty-eight. Sometimes he was so tempted to just brew up some Surripiotempus Potion and go back to the idea of presenting himself as a thirty-year-old. It had been easier that way, he thought.

"I like you like this," Bellatrix said quietly from beside him, and he realised she'd clearly felt his thoughts. They reached Gate Twelve, and as Bellatrix sank into one of the Bakelite chairs, Voldemort asked her,

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Thank you. I'll eat on the aeroplane," Bellatrix insisted. He nearly fought her on it, but then he could tell that it was nerves keeping her hunger at bay. He sat beside her and pulled her hand into his, glancing about to make sure no one was listening.

"The ten pre-eminent American Magical families," he prompted her, his voice little more than a whisper. Bellatrix nodded and recited,

"Whitlock. Mason. Weisman. McCreary. Townsend. Rizzo. Stoltz. Goldman. Mills. D'Aurora."

"Very good," he nodded. "Have you got their addresses?"

"Yes, My Lord," Bellatrix whispered.

"The applications? My signed statements of goodwill?" Voldemort studied her face, and Bellatrix nodded crisply as she assured him,

"I've got it all with me. I'm going to go to the Townsend house in Connecticut first."

"When you check into the Waldorf Astoria," Voldemort began, but he was cut off by the abrasive, amplified sound of a stewardess barking,

"Attention Passengers: Flight Nine-Eight-Six to New York City will begin boarding momentarily. We will begin with first-class passengers in just a few moments."

"That'll be me," Bellatrix said, pulling out her ticket. Voldemort hurried to say,

"When you check into the Waldorf Astoria, it's already paid for. Tip everyone one dollar at a time. Be careful with their money; it all looks the same and you need to be certain about the number on the note."

"I'll be very careful. I promise," Bellatrix said, squeezing his hand a little. Voldemort felt a sudden surge of anxiety, and he instructed her,

"Check your journal as often as possible. I'm not certain that they'll work, but if they do, I want to be kept up-to-date very frequently."

"Of course," Bellatrix nodded. She patted her bag and promised him, "I have it all in here."

"We will now begin boarding our first-class passengers aboard Flight Nine-Eight-Six to New York City," barked the Muggle stewardess over the intercom. Bellatrix stood, and suddenly Voldemort could not keep himself from acting. He seized her face in his hands and crushed his mouth against hers, not caring one bit that all the Muggles in the gate area could see. He heard an elderly Muggle woman say teasingly,

"Get a room!"

He didn't care. He kissed her until he could feel her anxiety, for she had her ticket in hand and was meant to board the plane. Finally Voldemort pulled himself away and nodded once.

"Be safe," he commanded her. "Stay in touch as closely as you can."

I love you, he added inside his mind, for it felt like it meant more there.

"I love you, too. I'll be home soon," Bellatrix promised, reaching up and stroking his close-cropped jaw. She breathed a heavy sigh and walked past him, showing her ticket to the stewardess at the door. She paused inside the jet bridge and smiled a little at him, and Voldemort raised his hand for a moment to bid her farewell. He stood and watched her go. He stayed as the Muggles piled aboard the aircraft, and he hovered by a window as the aircraft door shut and the airplane began to pull away to taxi. He tipped his forehead against the window and willed her with all of his might,

Be safe, little thing.


Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City

13 January 1971

Bellatrix sat on the sofa in her suite's sitting-room, clutching a bowl of spaghetti as she watched the news on the television.

"In South Vietnam, we have a small bit of good news. A C-7 Caribou aircraft from the 459th Tactical Airlift Squadron crashed earlier today. Miraculously, all four crewmen aboard the aircraft survived. Yesterday in Iran, negotiations between oil-producing countries and oil companies got off to a somewhat acrimonious start as…"

Bellatrix turned her attention away from the television then, for the journal sitting beside her on the sofa had flushed black. She set her half-eaten spaghetti down on the low table before her and snatched up the journal. It was the first time it had gone black since she'd left England twelve hours earlier. She opened it at once, her heart racing when she saw her master's writing.

Did you make it safely to the hotel? I can't feel you. Not from this far away.

Bellatrix shut her eyes and reached out in the ether for him, but it was like groping blindly in a dark room. It was bizarre, she thought, that their mental bond seemed to possess a geographical limit while the journals did not. She picked up her black quill and wrote back,

I can't feel you, either. It's strange. I'm at the hotel. In fact, I'm sitting on the sofa in my plush hotel-issued bathrobe, eating spaghetti and watching the television. It's all terribly barbaric.

She smiled a little as she watched the words sink into the page. She knew the thought of her like this would amuse him. She wasn't going to go out into the American wizarding world until the next day, until she'd had a chance to rest from her long journey. New words appeared on the page, and Voldemort's script looked a bit more loose and free than usual. She wondered whether perhaps he was drunk.

What are you watching on television? More of that drivel about that obnoxiously perky woman?

Mary Tyler Moore, he meant. Bellatrix chuckled and quickly wrote back,

No, My Lord. Just their news. Apparently, an aeroplane crashed in their war in Vietnam, but it's all right, because all the people aboard survived. And there are negotiations happening about oil of some kind.

How catastrophically dull, Voldemort wrote back at once. Then he wrote, Did you use the telephone to call for room service?

I did, Bellatrix wrote back, her hand flying across the page, but you neglected to tell me not to shout. I embarrassed myself, I'm afraid. The man on the other end of the line told me rather angrily that he could hear me just fine.

There was a long pause, and Bellatrix knew he must be laughing at her. When his words sank back up through the page, she knew he must be enjoying a bit of whisky, for they were a little uneven.

Eat your noodles and get some rest, little thing. I want you in top form tomorrow.

Yes, Master, Bellatrix wrote back. She hadn't called him that in a long time, for he'd told her it was too stilted and deferential for their marriage. She said it now almost mockingly, and she knew he'd understand. She shut the journal and picked up her spaghetti to finish it, chuckling to herself as the news ended and The Mary Tyler Moore Show came on the television.


Old Lyme, Connecticut

14 January 1971

Bellatrix shivered, even in her heavy woolen coat and leather gloves. Her boots crunched on the icy snow as she stepped up to the white wooden house before her. It was stately and elegant, but had a distinctly rural feel, situated here among the leafless trees. Bellatrix swallowed hard, her leather folio of documents gripped tightly in her left hand. When she reached the painted blue door, she rapped the brass knocker a few times and stomped her feet on the brick steps to stay warm. The blue door swung open, and a tall, thin witch with a cigarette in her hand cocked up a blonde eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asked, taking a drag on her cigarette. She was dressed nicely, but Bellatrix was astonished by the way this apparently-moneyed witch had answered her own door. Perhaps she had the wrong house.

"Are you… do I have the pleasure of speaking with Mrs Alexa Townsend?" Bellatrix asked carefully. The witch puffed on her cigarette again and nodded.

"Mmm-hmm. And who might you be?"

Bellatrix shivered again and wished that she would be invited inside. She sniffed lightly and steadied herself.

"My name is Bellatrix Black," she said confidently. When Mrs Townsend showed no recognition at the name, Bellatrix clarified, "I've come on behalf of the British Ministry for Magic. I'm the head of the Department of Refugee Resettlement, and I -"

"Wait." Mrs Townsend held her hand up and scoffed. "Refugee resettlement? You actually think that, just because of this stupid little coup Roche cooked up, that there are going to be American wizarding refugees?"

Bellatrix said nothing, suddenly feeling very foolish with her folio full of refugee applications. Mrs Townsend laughed and sucked hard on her cigarette. Bellatrix shivered harder than ever in the frigid air, and finally she said,

"Forgive my misunderstanding, Mrs Townsend. My husband and I were made to believe that you and your family were opposed the repeal of Rappaport's Law."

"Well, we are," Mrs Townsend said, pulling out her wand and Vanishing her mostly-smoked cigarette. She leaned on her threshold, still not inviting Bellatrix inside, and she said, "Here's the thing, and maybe you just don't really understand America, but… there are plenty of us who aren't happy mingling with the No-Majs. But that does not mean, not for one second, that we're going to leave our homes and haul off to England. As refugees? That's a joke, right? Americans - No-Maj and Magical alike - aren't refugees. If there's something we don't like in our country, we fix it. We don't run away. Who's your husband, anyway?"

Bellatrix struggled to stay calm and composed, realising just how futile her whole mission here was as she licked her icy lip and said, "My husband is Lord Voldemort."

"Huh." Alexa Townsend crossed her arms over her polka-dotted dress and said, "Isn't he a little old for you? I've seen pictures in the paper. Well, it doesn't matter. I mean, I think it's kind of pathetic that he sent his little teenage wife to try and pick up scraps from this little conflict. But know this, Bellatrix Black. The ones who destroyed MACUSA, the ones who are still fighting? They're extremists. They don't represent the wizarding public. The rest of us are going to either get our way or learn to deal with the fallout. But what we're not going to do is to pick up all our shit and move to England."

Bellatrix stood in silence for a moment, shivering hard as she studied Alexa Townsend's face. Finally she nodded at the witch in the doorway and said in a steely voice,

"I do apologise for wasting your time, Mrs Townsend. Have a wonderful day."

"Bye. Tell your husband to stay out of our business." Alexa Townsend closed the blue door in Bellatrix's face, and Bellatrix's shaking breath clouded in the cold air before her as she walked away in shock. She Disapparated back to New York, deciding that she would spend some time in the elegant bar at the Waldorf Astoria. She sank into a soft leather chair and listened to the gentle piano music playing among the low hum of conversation.

He'd been wrong.

Bellatrix had never thought that Voldemort could be wrong, but here she was, sitting in a Muggle bar, having been told by the witch who was meant to be an ally that Voldemort's plans for America were a joke.

He'd been wrong.

Bellatrix pulled her journal out of her handbag and surreptitiously Transfigured her black quill to look like a fountain pen. It would be less conspicuous, she figured, among the Muggles here. She quickly opened her journal and wrote,

My Lord,

I am extremely sorry to report that my first meeting, with Mrs Alexa Townsend, was unexpectedly terrible. She refused to even admit me to her home, and she asserted that even those who are opposed to integrating No-Majs want to find a compromise in America. She claimed - very confidently - that there would never be any wizarding refugees from America. The last thing she said before slamming her door in my face was to tell you to 'stay out of their business.'

Of course, I have yet to meet with anyone else, but I must admit I have a terrible feeling. I'm very sorry.

She shut her journal and set it aside, feeling a roil of nausea as the Muggle waiter stepped up before her. He was handsome, perhaps in his early thirties, and he surveyed Bellatrix with unmistakable hunger.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said with a rather flirtatious smile. "What can I get for you?"

Bellatrix was wholly unfamiliar with Muggle beverages, so she shrugged a little and asked, "What do you suggest?"

The waiter's eyebrows flew up. "English, huh? Very cool. Well… do you like mint?"

"Yes, I do," Bellatrix said honestly, and the Muggle waiter grinned.

"Then you'd love a Grasshopper. It's creamy, minty… goes down real easy. How's that sound?"

Bellatrix nodded. "That sounds fine. Thank you."

The waiter stepped away, and as soon as he'd gone, Bellatrix picked up her journal. It was black again, and for a half second, Bellatrix hesitated in opening it. She was terrified of what she'd find. She couldn't feel him now, but she knew what he must be feeling. Rage. He must be feeling rage. Finally she gathered the courage to open the journal, and inside her husband's writing was neat and tight.

If Alexa Townsend is that hostile, the others will be worse. Perhaps it is true what they say about Americans - that they are stubborn even in the face of utter destruction. I'm sorry I sent you. Go to the concierge and have him arrange a ticket for you on the next flight back to London. It isn't safe for you to stay if that's how they feel about us.

Bellatrix raised her eyebrows, surprised by how gentle his answer was. Perhaps, she thought, he was indeed furious, but not with her. In any case, she knew she ought to heed his command and go straight to the concierge. She shoved her journal into her bag and hurried out of the bar, knowing the Muggle waiter would be bringing a minty cocktail to an empty chair.

The concierge was helpful and considerate, and by the time Bellatrix was finished with him, she'd been booked over the phone on the red-eye flight leaving New York in three hours. She made her way upstairs in the elaborate lift, deciding to pack up her bag at once and head to LaGuardia Airport. She'd be better off, she thought, passing the time in a Muggle space.

The second she opened the door to her suite, she could tell that something was wrong. She shut the door behind her and pulled her wand out slowly. Suddenly two figures appeared out of her dining room - a twenty-something witch with ginger hair and a plump thirty-something wizard with skin the colour of coffee. The two of them had their wands out, too, and Bellatrix tipped her head just like Voldemort always did as she said,

"Let me guess. You're Aurors from MACUSA. Or what's left of it."

The witch nodded, and the wizard said simply, "Mrs Black, we have received intelligence that you've come to America on your husband's behalf to recruit refugees. We know your husband has injected money into the conflict."

Bellatrix scoffed. "You received intelligence. You mean that Alexa Townsend sent you an owl the moment I left her house."

The large wizard took a step toward Bellatrix, who tightened her grip on her wand, and he said, "You need to come with us, Mrs Black. We would prefer if this were done peacefully."

Bellatrix shook her head. "There will be absolutely nothing peaceful about my husband's vengeance if you arrest or injure me."

The witch raised her wand and said firmly, "Expelliarmus."

Bellatrix quickly deflected the spell and fired back with a yell. "Stupefy!"

The witch soared backward against the column separating the foyer from the dining room. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Bellatrix turned her wand at once to the wizard, and before he could utter a syllable, she shrieked,

"Avada Kedavra!"

There was a blinding jade flash of light, and the large wizard toppled over, crushing the unconscious witch that Bellatrix had Stupefied. Suddenly she panicked, aiming her wand at the witch's legs that stuck out from beneath the dead wizard.

"Avada Kedavra," she incanted, her voice shaking fiercely. She recoiled in the green flash that burst from her wand, feeling afraid for the first time ever in the wake of that spell. She quickly Vanished both corpses and their wands, and she rushed around the suite shoving clothes and toiletries into her Expanded bag. Once she was certain she had everything, she Disapparated from the Waldorf Astoria, knowing she'd never see the place again.

She came to outside of LaGuardia Airport, and she pushed her way inside out of the cold. Before she got into the long, snaking check-in line, she sat on a slatted bench and pulled her journal out of her bag. The quill shook so badly in her fingers that for a long moment, she couldn't write. Finally, she scribbled,

Getting on a flight in a few hours. I'm at the airport. Two MACUSA Aurors were waiting for me in my hotel suite. I killed and Vanished them both. I'm sorry. My Lord, I have failed you and I am so profoundly sorry.

She shut the journal and her eyes, trying not to vomit on the ground as she tried desperately to process everything that had happened today. She focused on the din around her, on the rattle of conversations and cash registers and taxi horns and crying babies. When she finally opened her eyes, Bellatrix saw that the journal in her lap had gone black. She opened it, her hands feeling numb as she peeled the cover open and saw two simple words in the neatest script she'd ever seen.

Come home.