Troublemaker

by Mrs Slytherin Baelish

Autumn 1968 - Bellatrix has come of age and pledged herself to the Dark Lord. With the help of a charmed journal, she'll be Voldemort's eyes and ears at Hogwarts during her last two years of school - if she can stay out of trouble long enough to be of any use. Slow burn, novel-length Bellamort. Part I of completed Troublemaker series (400k total). Re-post.

1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is Part I of the completed five-part Troublemaker series, which totals approximately 400,000 words. I pulled the series offline last year for reasons that are no longer necessary, so this is a repost. Please enjoy, and thank you for any and all feedback.

---

The Doxy's Nest - Hogsmeade

October 1968

"Miss Black. Do come in."

Bellatrix Black's heart thudded like a drum in her chest as she stepped into Room Eight. She had been instructed to be here at noon on the day when Hogwarts students were in Hogsmeade for their first visit of the term. She'd turned seventeen years old the month before, and the Dark Lord had promised her that she could take her vow of devotion to him as soon as she was of age.

Lord Voldemort flicked his hand toward the door, which shut and locked behind Bellatrix. He stood in the centre of the room, studying Bellatrix with his handsome dark eyes. He sniffed lightly and gestured for her to come closer. Bellatrix walked up to him and genuflected, bowing her head as she sank onto one knee. The Dark Lord surprised her by reaching for her chin and turning her face up to his. He stared down at her for a long moment, and Bellatrix felt an odd fluttering in her stomach.

"Legilimens," Voldemort whispered. There was a sudden, sharp ache in Bellatrix's head, and then thoughts and memories were flying through her brain. He was searching her consciousness, she knew. He pulled out thoughts she'd had, the ache and longing she possessed to serve him. He pulled out the way she'd stared at the ceiling in her dormitory in the middle of the night, dreaming of being his soldier. He yanked up a memory of a younger Bellatrix taunting a Gryffindor girl, a Mudblood, and getting four weeks' detention for using the term. And he seemed to read her mental pulse now, her nervousness and the way she adored him without even knowing him. He looked satisfied, nodding once, and he said quietly,

"Stand up, Bella."

She rose, a flush of excitement going through her. She still hadn't spoken, far too afraid to do so, but she had no choice when the Dark Lord asked,

"In what capacity do you wish to serve me?"

"In any capacity whatsoever that you see fit to use me, My Lord," Bellatrix said. He smiled crookedly and nodded again.

"Yes," he said, "you'll do nicely. You recently came of age. When?"

"The twenty-first of last month, My Lord," Bellatrix said. Voldemort flicked his eyes around the shabby room in The Doxy's Nest, a small and seedy inn on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. He pulled a canvas rucksack from the dusty-looking bed, extracting two emerald green leather books. He handed one to Bellatrix and said,

"These two journals have a modified Protean Charm. You'll have one; I'll have the other. If you're to be my spy at Hogwarts, we shall need a method of communication far more secure than letters by owl. If there's a message for you from me, the cover of the book will turn black. Mine will turn black when you respond. Here. Take this, too."

He pulled out a jet black quill, which Bellatrix accepted and studied. It had a beautiful brass nib, and as Bellatrix examined it, Voldemort said,

"It's self-inking, and the ink is enchanted to work with the Protean Charm. The ink vanishes a moment after you write, and it appears in my book. You'll use this quill and journal to write to me regularly."

"And what shall I write, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked. He shrugged a little and said lightly,

"The everyday happenings of Hogwarts are mundane, I know. But as my power grows, so too do the ranks of my enemies. Albus Dumbledore. Horace Slughorn. Basically the entirety of Gryffindor Tower. I want you to keep an eye on things, on how people interact, and keep me apprised. You'll be my eyes and ears at the school. You're in your sixth year?"

"Yes, My Lord," Bellatrix nodded, hugging the journal close to her chest. Voldemort tipped his head and noted,

"You're by far my youngest official servant, but I have confidence you'll serve me well. Won't you, Bella?"

She nodded vehemently. "Oh, yes, My Lord!" she exclaimed. "I want nothing more than to make you pleased with me. I want nothing more than to help you."

"I know," he said. Something strange came over his shining dark eyes then, and his lips curled up. "I can see that you'll give me many years of… exemplary service. Now. Extend your left arm."

Bellatrix did, feeling a nervous shock go up her spine when Voldemort pulled back the sleeve of her school robe. He pushed back her jumper and the white shirt beneath, making Bellatrix shiver from the brush of his fingers on her skin. He touched the tip of his pale wand to her flesh and dragged it around in a smooth pattern.

"Morsmordre," he said in a quiet, silky tone. Bellatrix gasped, for her skin had begun to sear as though a red-hot branding iron had been touched to her arm. A tattoo-like mark, a skull with a serpent swirling from its mouth, appeared in black on the inside of her forearm. Almost immediately, it faded to a very pale pink, almost indistinguishable from her skin, and the burning subsided. The Dark Lord studied her arm as he pulled his wand away, and he mused,

"You're mine now."

"Thank you, My Lord," Bellatrix whispered. She tucked her new journal and quill into her school bag and adjusted her sleeves back down.

"You need to get back to the village before your absence arouses suspicion," Lord Voldemort said primly. "Speaking of which… stay out of trouble in school, Bellatrix. I've heard you're something of a troublemaker."

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

October 1968

"Morning, Bellatrix."

"Hello, Tarquin." She didn't bother turning round in Slughorn's Potions classroom. She took her silver knife and her scales from her rucksack and kept her eyes down as Tarquin Avery plunked his own bag beside her.

"Can I work next to you today?" he asked flirtatiously.

"I don't care," Bellatrix said honestly, running a polishing cloth over the blade of her knife. Tarquin Avery had flirted with Bellatrix for years, but she'd done her best to ignore him both over time. He wasn't very good at taking the hint. As Bellatrix sat in her chair and set down her Potions textbook, she could feel Tarquin's eyes running up and down her form, and she shuddered.

"Good morning. Good morning." Professor Slughorn stepped up to the front of the classroom, and the din of conversation among the sixth-year Slytherins and Ravenclaws died down. Slughorn flicked his wand at the chalkboard behind him, and the chalk levitated and wrote the words "Cosmetic Eye Gel" on the board. There was an audible, collective groan from the boys in the room, and Slughorn smiled knowingly as he said,

"I know, boys. I know. But hear me out! Making any potion with a gel consistency is easier said than done! Too thin, and it won't bind to skin or any other surface. Too thick, and it won't absorb. We shall begin our studies of gel-consistency potions with a simple night eye gel intended to firm the skin and prevent wrinkles. You will all be needing Gillyweed - no, slathering it on the skin will not give you gills, Mr Shacklebolt - and you will find the instructions on page seventy-six of your books. Please begin!"

"I'll go get the Gillyweed," Tarquin Avery said at once, and he dashed off before Bellatrix could stop him. She read through the instructions in her text and mumbled some thanks to Tarquin when he came back with supplies for them both. She ground up the arrowroot powder in her mortar and pestle and squeezed the slime off the Gillyweed, setting it to simmer together for the requisite five minutes.

"You wouldn't need this potion, Bellatrix," said Tarquin from beside her. Bellatrix gave him an odd look and said,

"I should certainly hope my eyes aren't already wrinkled. I just turned seventeen."

Tarquin gave her a meaningful look, his gaze studying her face and then very obviously settling on her breasts. Bellatrix pulled her outer robe more tightly around herself and said crossly,

"I don't much care for when you look at me like that, Tarquin. Stop it." She sat back down to wait for her potion to finish simmering.

Suddenly she yelped, for Tarquin had put his hand on Bellatrix's knee above her long gray socks. He started to trail his fingers up, under the hem of her skirt, and he said softly,

"Bella. You and I both come from pureblood families. I'm turning seventeen myself next month. Wouldn't it be -"

"You need to get your hand off my leg," Bellatrix growled through gritted teeth. "Immediately."

Tarquin sighed and rolled his eyes, but he was too slow in taking his hand off Bellatrix. She snatched her wand from the table and aimed it right at Tarquin's eyes.

"Oculosanguis," she said smoothly, and even when Tarquin screamed, she didn't move or change her expression. Suddenly blood was running down his cheeks, bubbling streams of scarlet pouring from his eyes. Bellatrix just stared as the rest of the students shrieked and gasped, as Professor Slughorn rushed to undo the Bloody Eye Hex and to urge Maximus Malfoy to take Tarquin Avery to the infirmary.

"Miss Black!" cried Slughorn, and at last Bellatrix paid real attention. She straightened her spine and said matter-of-factly,

"He had his hand on my leg, sir, and would not remove his hand when I asked him to do so."

Professor Slughorn stared at Bellatrix in utter disbelief, shaking his head as he shrugged. "Miss Black, you may not handle such a thing by casting a Bloody Eye Hex. Tergeo."

Slughorn siphoned up the blood that had pooled on Tarquin's chair and desk, and the room was deathly quiet as everyone watched him say down to Bellatrix,

"Fifty points from Slytherin, Miss Black. And three straight Saturdays of detention. You'll need to write a letter of apology to Mr Avery, as well."

Bellatrix felt her cheeks go hot. She folded her hands on her desk and said in a voice too shrill for her own liking, "Professor Slughorn, I find it absurd that I should apologise to the boy who refused to stop touching me."

Slughorn shook his head, looking almost sad as he told Bellatrix, "Next time, stand right up and fetch a teacher. He'll be getting detentions, as well."

Bellatrix's eyes burned. "Next time," she repeated, scoffing and nodding. "Right. Next time, it won't just be his eyes bleeding. I feel unwell, Professor. May I be excused?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She shoved her bags into her rucksack and stormed from the Potions classroom, leaving her half-finished eye gel in her cauldron.

Later that night, Bellatrix sat in her bed with the curtains drawn, feeling more dejected than she could remember feeling in a very long while. The other Slytherins were irate with her that she'd lost fifty House points over the incident with Tarquin - a fellow Slytherin. They all wanted to know why Bellatrix couldn't have just shoved his hand away. They wanted to know why she'd gone for his eyes, why there had been blood involved. Even Narcissa, Bellatrix's younger sister who knew hardly anything about boys in general, had insisted that Bellatrix should have just stood up or gotten Professor Slughorn's attention.

None of them understood. No one understood that Bellatrix had spent the last few years beating Tarquin off with a metaphorical stick, that the word no meant absolutely nothing to him at all. None of them had felt the self-defensive rage in her veins when Tarquin had rolled his eyes at her.

As Bellatrix picked up her green leather journal and her black quill, she felt sick with fear. She opened the journal, her hand shaking. She knew that she had to tell him. He'd instructed her to stay out of trouble so she could spy more effectively for him. She needed to confess to disobeying his orders.

My Lord, she wrote, her handwriting spindly from her nerves. I am sorry to report that I have gotten myself into trouble less than a week after you told me not to do so. I apologise with all that I am. I shall be in detention for the next three Saturdays, but will be looking and listening as hard as I can around that inconvenience. I'm very sorry. - Bellatrix

She watched the ink seep into the page as though it were salt in water. She shut the journal and set it on the bed beside her, lying on her side and hoping that her master would forgive her. She stared at the green leather for what seemed like an eternity, thinking she wasn't going to get an answer after all. But then the leather flushed dark, going black, and Bellatrix's heart raced with anxiety. She picked up the journal, nearly dropping it from how hard her hands were shaking. When she opened it, there were four simple words in a neat script.

What did you do?

Bellatrix snatched her quill off the bed, waiting for the Dark Lord's ink to fade into the page, and put the brass nib to the paper. She considered carefully what to write, then finally scratched out,

Tarquin Avery put his hand on my knee and then started to move it up my leg. I told him to take his hand away. When he refused, I cast a Bloody Eye Hex at him. Professor Slughorn was less than impressed. He took fifty points from Slytherin and gave me three weeks' detention.

This time Bellatrix didn't even have time to shut the journal after her words sank in before new ones appeared. The Dark Lord's writing seemed a bit messier this time round.

Do not concern yourself with the time spent in detentions. Slughorn is a right fool at all times, but if he has punished you for defending yourself, he's an even greater idiot than I'd suspected. Think no more of it. I am not cross with you.

Bellatrix's eyes welled, not for the first time in what had been an absurdly maudlin day. She read over the words as many times as she could before they started to fade away. Her fingers flew to the page, and she whimpered softly as she willed his writing to stay. But then the page went blank, and Bellatrix scribbled as neatly as she could,

Thank you, Master.

There was rather a long pause, and Bellatrix was about to shut the journal and tuck herself under her blankets. But then his writing appeared, smooth and calm again.

Get some sleep, Bella.

Bellatrix felt breathless all of a sudden, brushing her thumb over the words on the page as though doing so was touching the Dark Lord himself. She felt a clenching ache in her chest then, and as the words vanished into the page, Bellatrix whispered,

"Goodnight, My Lord."

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

October 1968

"Hello, Professor Slughorn." Bellatrix spoke the words with more sour disrespect than she'd intended, but Slughorn feigned a neutral expression as he looked up from his desk. He stood and said,

"Good afternoon, Miss Black. A shame to keep you indoors on what is surely one of autumn's last gasps of beauty, but… well, I'm sure you understand the importance of recompense in this situation. A Bloody Eye Hex. Hmm."

He tutted a little and gestured to the desks in the Potions classroom. Around ten cauldrons had been laid out, and on one desk was a cardboard box of Mrs. Skrubb's Powerful Powder, along with a wooden-handled steel brush. There was a little bucket of water, too, and Bellatrix huffed as she asked,

"Am I to scour all of them, then?"

"Yes, my dear. You may leave once they're all clean. I'll be here grading essays if you need anything." He sat back down at his desk and began to hum absentmindedly, and Bellatrix rolled her eyes. She walked up to the first desk, peered into the iron cauldron, and curled her lip up with disgust at the accumulated grime inside. She sprinkled some of the cleansing powder into the cauldron, ladled in a little water, and set to scrubbing. She'd been scouring cauldrons at least two or three times a year for her entire time at Hogwarts, what with all the detentions she'd earned herself.

The first four cauldrons went relatively smoothly, but then Bellatrix's arm began to ache, and she pushed her sweaty curls from her eyes as she scowled up at Professor Slughorn's desk. Just then, the door to the Potions classroom creaked open, and Slughorn looked up with a surprised expression.

"Ah. Professor Dumbledore," he said. Bellatrix turned round, wiping scouring powder from her nose as she set the steel brush down in the cauldron she'd been cleaning. Professor Dumbledore, who was serving his firm term as Headmaster after the retirement of Armando Dippet, gave Bellatrix a worried look as he walked into the room.

"Professor Slughorn," he said, "I was just looking over this week's disciplinary records, and I could not help but notice something a bit… strange… about Miss Black's punishment." He turned to Bellatrix, cocked up a silvery eyebrow, and asked, "Miss Black, what exactly happened earlier this week?"

Bellatrix crossed her arms over her chest. She did not trust or like Albus Dumbledore; he'd made his disdain for Lord Voldemort more than clear over the summer in the Daily Prophet. Still, if he was willing to hear her out…

"Tarquin Avery has been pursuing me for some time, sir," she said crossly. "He put his hand on my leg and started touching me during Potions lessons. I told him to stop; when he did not, I cast an Bloody Eye Hex on him."

"That's why she earned the detention, Albus… er, Professor Dumbledore," said Slughorn. "It was a grave overreaction."

"I hardly think Hogwarts ought to punish the victims of assault in matters such as these, Professor," said Dumbledore in a cautious voice. "Why don't we agree to keep the fifty House points taken, owing to the nature of the hex used, but cancel Miss Black's detentions? I do not think it fair that she should spend three Saturdays scouring cauldrons by hand because a boy decided to touch her against her will."

"You're right, of course, Headmaster." Slughorn nodded and turned his face to Bellatrix. "The points stay detracted, Miss Black, but you may go about your Saturday as you please."

"And I needn't come next week?" Bellatrix asked. "Or the week after that?"

"No. Of course not. Do let us know if Mr Avery causes any more trouble," said Dumbledore. Bellatrix just nodded, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder and snatching her outer robe from the back of a chair. She walked without another word from the Potions classroom, making her way outside to enjoy the last of autumn's sunshine.

---

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

October 1968

He shouldn't care how Bellatrix Black's detentions went. Lord Voldemort was intelligent enough to know that he shouldn't care. And, yet, hours earlier, he'd scrawled into the journal three words and a question mark. How was detention? He'd not received a response.

He was a busy man. He'd had meetings today in his base at Malfoy Manor, meetings with Abraxas Malfoy and Raffi Macnair and others. He'd discussed fundraising and surreptitious message-spreading and plants at the Ministry. And now, at eight in the evening on a Saturday, he was sending a message to his spy at Hogwarts asking her how her detentions had gone.

That made him feel rather silly, on the one hand. She was seventeen, he reminded himself. Little more than a girl. He was nearly forty-two. He ought not concern himself with the school discipline of a servant who still wore Slytherin robes.

On the other hand, there was something different about Bellatrix that transcended her age. She was wide-eyed with wonder over him. She was unafraid to unleash hell upon anyone who crossed her. She was beautiful in her darkness, and some aching corner of Voldemort's mind hadn't let her go after their too-brief meeting in The Doxy's Next.

He drafted a letter to Titus Avery, warning him that his son's behavior against a loyal servant of the Dark Lord would not be tolerated. He sent it off by owl and paced in his office until at last the leather binding of his journal shifted from green to black. He tried not to rush over to his desk, tried to seem bored even to himself as he peeled open the journal and read,

My Lord, Albus Dumbledore intervened on my behalf and got my detentions cancelled. He said I shouldn't be punished for what Tarquin Avery did, and the only remaining punishment is the fifty House points for my 'overreaction.' I did have to scour four cauldrons by hand before they let me go. Albus Dumbledore is still an intolerable git. - Bellatrix

He thought it was rather quaint, the way she addressed her little notes to him and signed them off as though there might be some confusion about who was writing. Voldemort studied her words a few times before they faded away, and he sighed as he wrote,

It's very likely that Dumbledore will see the potential in you to be won over to his side, in the same way that he undoubtedly sees potential in you to use the Dark Arts freely. He will continue to attempt to 'save' you, to woo you to his cause. Stand firm and do not be swayed by him.

His words sank into the page, and he drummed his fingers on his desk as he waited for a reply. He raked his fingers through his black hair, which was just beginning to grey, and he spun the little marble globe on his desk. Then words appeared on the page, and he read Bellatrix's rushed script again.

If Albus Dumbledore wanted me on his side, it's too late. He's missed his chance. I belong to the Dark Lord, wholly and completely.

Something jerked through Voldemort's veins at that. He read her last sentence four times, as quickly as he could manage, before the words disappeared. He shut his eyes and remembered the look of Bellatrix down on one knee, staring up at him with her doe-eyed, alabaster face in a state of awe. She was beautiful, he thought. Her dark curls and her dark eyes and her full lips and her…

He clenched his hand onto a fist on his desk and swore under his breath. He was busy. He had an empire to build. He did not have time for silly little girls with their silly little detentions. There were enemies to eliminate. Spies to interrogate. Mudbloods to torture. A Ministry to infiltrate. He did not have time for Bellatrix Black.

And, yet, at eight in the evening on a Saturday, he couldn't think of anything that was especially pressing or demanding of his time. Not right this minute. What he did have was a journal sitting open before him, its pages waiting for his reply. There was only one problem: he didn't know what to say.

Had she been flirting with him? Was she that much of a harlot, the silly girl? Or had she simply been expressing her unparalleled devotion? There was only one way to find out. His hand hovered over the page, his fingers gripping his quill so tightly that it hurt, and he finally managed to scratch out,

If it isn't Tarquin Avery, then who is it? What young wizard holds the other sort of loyalty a young witch might give?

He tossed his quill down as the words vanished, shutting his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose. He was a bloody simpering fool, he thought, and he grabbed his wand from the desk.

"Reducto," he said quietly, aiming his wand at the marble globe on his desk. It burst into dust, into a pile of tiny particles, a little bang signaling the demise of the decoration. Voldemort set his wand down with a shaking hand. If he was going to ascend properly into power, he would need outlets to release his tension, ways to keep himself happy besides killing so that he could stay focused. But Bellatrix Black was just a desperate schoolgirl. She had just come of age; she hadn't even taken her NEWTs yet.

But there was something different about Bellatrix. Something that had nothing to do with years and everything to do with her intent, with the fibres that made up her beautifully wicked being. Voldemort glanced down at his journal to see that Bellatrix had written back. His stomach twisted when he saw that she'd written again,

I belong to the Dark Lord. Wholly and completely.

He had no good answer for that. There was no way to reply directly to such a thing without making idiots of them both. So Voldemort quickly picked up his quill and scribbled,

Stay out of trouble, Bella.

He slammed his quill down on his desk and flew to his feet, pacing anxiously as he waited to see if she would reply. Finally her messy writing appeared again.

I shall try very hard, My Lord. Goodnight.

He contemplated writing one last word to her - Goodnight - but he decided against it. He shut the journal and tucked it into his desk drawer, deciding that under no circumstances would he look at it against for at least a few days. He wouldn't have either of them waiting with bated breath on messages when there was so much else to do. She had classes to pass. House points to earn back. Quidditch matches to attend. Spying to do. And Lord Voldemort had a reign to construct. There was no time, no space, no spare energy for using the journals for any purpose besides the transmission of concrete and critical information. They weren't Muggle telephones. They were devices to help Lord Voldemort gain power.

Voldemort eyed the closed drawer for a moment before walking briskly from his office, deciding he wanted a long and scalding bath before bed tonight.

---

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

November 1968

"They haven't done this to us since second year," Dahlia Greengrass noted as she and Bellatrix ambled into the open infirmary. She sighed and declared, "Don't you suppose that if a student couldn't smell or see correctly, that person would probably complain to Madam Lester anyway?"

Bellatrix shrugged and said to Dahlia, "If you'd spent years seeing poorly, would you know that it was possible to see better?"

"Good point," Dahlia admitted. She and Bellatrix took a pair of chairs along the wall, where a little sign that read Wait Here had been erected. Dahlia twiddled her thumbs on her lap until Madam Lester appeared, her wrinkled face warm and kind as she said,

"Ah. Miss Greengrass. We can go ahead and start with you. This way, please."

"Good luck!" Bellatrix called after her friend. Dahlia grinned over her shoulder, but Bellatrix's own little smile disappeared when she realised who had just sat down in the chairs next to her. Gryffindors, and a rather distasteful pair of them, at that. Molly Prewett had spoken in public - multiple times - about her disdain for Lord Voldemort and his 'pureblood fanatic' followers. Her boyfriend, Arthur Weasley, was just a big a blood traitor; he was obsessed with Muggles and thought they were a noble race of humans.

Sure enough, as they sat down, Arthur was saying to Molly, "And somehow, with no magic, Muggles figured a system to test the eyes and determine the exact shape and angle and thickness of a necessary lens to see properly. It's positively brilliant."

"It's clever enough," Molly Prewett said, "but I don't envy their experience with their tooth healers."

"Dentists," clarified Arthur, and Molly nodded.

"I learned in Muggle Studies that a trip to the dentist may mean sharp tools being jammed in your mouth for cleaning and examination and fixing up problems. Give me scouring charms and cavity filling by Magic any day of the week."

"But you have to admit that, considering they've done so entirely without Magic, the Muggles have really figured out clever solutions to their problems," Arthur Weasley said. Bellatrix had heard enough. She frowned deeply and snapped,

"Arthur, are you attempting to say that Muggles are intelligent?"

"I wasn't saying anything at all to you, Bellatrix," Arthur shot back, and Bellatrix shrugged.

"You didn't need to. You made yourself quite plain."

"Miss Black! You're next!" It appeared that Dahlia Greengrass had finished, and she gave Bellatrix a sly thumbs-up as she walked out of the infirmary. Bellatrix rose and followed Madam Lester back into the airy infirmary, taking a seat on a chair between two curtains when instructed. Madam Lester flashed her a little smile and said to the self-writing quill hovering in the air beside her, "Bellatrix Black. Slytherin. Sixth-year."

The quill scribbled the information onto the floating parchment, and Madam Lester said in a quick, efficient voice,

"Right, dear. So, we're just going to quickly test the acuity of your five senses to ensure that everything's in working order. With students spending so many months at school, away from home, it's important that we escalate something to a Healer if need be. We'll begin with your sense of smell. Have you noticed any recent problems?"

Bellatrix thought back to the previous week, when they'd used Bubotuber Pus in Potions. She shook her head and shrugged. "No. No problems with smell."

"Very good. Quick test, then." Madam Lester took a little glass jar off the table beside her and unscrewed the lid. She held it below Bellatrix's nose and asked, "What do you smell?"

Bellatrix breathed in, and the scent was almost overwhelmingly strong. "Lemon."

"That's right. Now… Odoremutare." Madam Lester tapped her wand to the edge of the little glass jar and held it up again. "What do you smell now?"

Bellatrix breathed in again and crinkled her nose. It was a smell she didn't much like. Too sweet. "Butterbeer."

"Very well done," said Madam Lester. She closed the jar and put it away, picking up what looked like a toothpick and a cotton swab. She gestured to Bellatrix's hands and said, "Hold out your hands and close your eyes, and then tell me whether I'm touching you with something hard or soft. Ready?"

Bellatrix did as she was ordered, but she didn't care for it one bit. Holding her hands out, vulnerable to someone with a toothpick, whilst her eyes were closed? She was nervous and tense, and it took everything she had to pay the faintest bit of attention to the soft touch of cotton and the hard poke of the toothpick. Hard, soft. Soft, soft, hard. She finished that test up with Madam Lester, and then she worked her way through an eye test in which the letters and figures on the chart Magically rearranged themselves between rounds of assessment. She ate a few little wafers given to her by Madam Lester and positively identified them as tasting sweet, sour, and bitter respectively.

"The last test is hearing," said Madam Lester. "Close your eyes again, please."

Bellatrix sighed, very much disliking the sensation of sitting vulnerably with her eyes shut. Little tinkling bell sounds jingled besides Bellatrix's ears, and she identified for Madam Lester what side they were on when they sounded. "Left. Right. Right, left, left, right. Both."

"Very good." Madam Lester murmured to the quill and parchment beside her, "All senses functioning perfectly well." She gave Bellatrix a little smile and said, "You can go ahead, dear. I think Slytherin sixth-years have Transfiguration soon, eh? If you go now, you won't be late."

"Thanks." Bellatrix rose from her chair, shaking her head as she considered how pointless all this health screening was. And as she walked by Arthur Weasley on her way out, she considered what a fool the boy was for thinking that Muggles' primitive and invasive approach to medicine could ever be considered impressive.

His book was black.

Bellatrix's heart raced when she took the journal out of her rucksack in the Slytherin girls' dormitory. She ignored her desk, kicked off her shoes, and rushed into her bed. She yanked the emerald curtains shut to get privacy, her hands shaking as she opened the journal. Its cover hadn't been black in weeks. She blinked quickly as her eyes adjusted to the dim light within her bed, and she finally took in the neat, even script on the page.

It has been several weeks since I have heard anything from you. I refuse to believe Hogwarts is quite that dull.

Bellatrix couldn't help but smile a little. She picked up her black quill, unsure of how long her master's message had been in the book. It couldn't have been more than an hour or so; she'd just glanced at the green journal after dinner. Even so, she wrote quickly.

My Lord, I have nothing particularly exciting to note. However, I did note some behaviour today that seems a bit concerning. I and the other students were subject to rather ridiculous health screening, and whilst waiting, Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley sat beside me. They were going on and on about Muggle medical technology, and Arthur Weasley spoke as though he idolised the Muggles. When I intervened to correct him, both he and Molly Prewett became tense and hostile. I often see the both of them speaking with Albus Dumbledore in the corridors or after meals in what seems like a profoundly friendly capacity. - Bellatrix

She shook her hand, which ached after writing so much so quickly. Dahlia Greengrass and a few of the other girls had come into the dormitory, chatting about hairstyles, but Bellatrix paid them no mind. She watched as her writing sank into the page, and she waited for a reply. She realised that it might be hours before she heard anything back, if she heard anything at all, for the Dark Lord was a very busy man. But the moment she'd shut the green journal, it had bled black again. Bellatrix's breath caught a little in her chest when she opened the journal to see that the reply was long and thorough.

We will need to maintain close surveillance of Arthur Weasley, Molly Prewett, and Albus Dumbledore. If the two students are already of age, they may already be part of the organisation I know Dumbledore has founded to oppose me. Just look at you - one needn't be a full-fledged old person to participate in the future of the Wizarding world. I need you to make me a complete list of any and all students and professors who speak negatively about my cause, who speak in favour of Muggles and Mudbloods, et cetera. I need that list within the next few days.

As the writing faded away, Bellatrix prepared to write back at once and assure her master that she would provide the list as soon as she could be very certain of its usefulness, but almost immediately more writing appeared.

I remember those health screenings. They tried to tell me I needed eyeglasses, so I went ahead and performed complicated spellwork on myself to fix my own vision.

Suddenly Bellatrix smiled, thinking of a young Lord Voldemort during his time at Hogwarts, refusing to wear glasses and doing spellwork far beyond what would be expected of a boy his age. Bellatrix ran her fingers over his writing as it disappeared, and she scribbled back,

Fortunately, my eyes were fine. The better to see you with, My Lord.

She realised at once that she'd probably sounded obnoxious, or at least flirtatious, and she had a moment of abject panic. She immediately brought her quill to the paper again and wrote,

I apologise. I do not wish to offend you, Master.

There was a moment of nothing, of blank paper staring back at Bellatrix and the sound of her fellow Slytherin girls giggling over Maximus Malfoy. Then, at last, Lord Voldemort's handwriting appeared again.

You do not offend me. You amuse me. I confess I rather look forward to seeing you once more in person - I shall be at the Black Family Christmas gathering in order to socialise properly with those who might be sympathetic to my cause. I expect you'll be there. In the meantime, get me that list of potential enemies at Hogwarts. Keep your healthy eyes open.

Bellatrix was grateful she was sitting, or else she would have swooned. He wanted to see her again. Her beloved lord and master, the greatest wizard of all time and the one who would lead them to salvation, wanted to see her again. Bellatrix forced her shaking hand to write,

I'll have that list to you as soon as possible, My Lord. And I shall see you at the Christmas Party. Goodnight.

She shut the journal, thinking that surely that was the end of the 'conversation.' She stared at the green leather, her entire body feeling alive in a way it had never done before. She gulped hard and shut her eyes, lying on her back and letting her hand trail up the inside of her thigh. She remembered the way his fingers had felt on her left arm, on the place where he'd marked her as his. She remembered what he'd said about that - 'You're mine now.' Bellatrix's breath quickened and she couldn't bring herself to care about the girls beyond her bed curtains as she brushed her knuckles around the outside of her knickers. She turned her head and stared at the journal, at the thing her master had given her that linked her to him just as surely as her Mark. And then she gasped, for it had gone black again.

She rushed to open it, to see what important orders or details he'd sent, but when she saw that it was two simple words, she could not help but let her eyes well up. She stared at the words for a long moment until they faded away.

Goodnight, Bella.

---

Number 12, Grimmauld Place

London

December 1968

She was almost shockingly pretty.

Where she stood in the corner of the parlour, talking softly with her two sisters, she was a vision in black. She'd opted for a floor-length dress of black raw silk, its neckline probably far more plunging than her father would have liked. She had elbow-length black gloves and shimmering diamond bracelet that matched her earrings. Her wild curls had been pulled back into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. Her younger sister Narcissa noticed him first, and when Bellatrix finally turned around, he could see that she'd used dark liner on her eyes and scarlet lipstick. His breath caught just a little bit, and he decided to speak to some of the others before giving her any attention.

Voldemort could feel Bellatrix's eyes on him as he talked mundane monetary details with her father, Cygnus Black III. As he stood chatting with Abraxas Malfoy about their plants in the Ministry, he knew her gaze was flicking back and forth to him. She was drinking wine, and in the time that Voldemort spent talking to Malfoy, he watched her finish one glass and start another. She was nervous.

Finally, Abraxas' wife Cerda Rosier pulled him into a conversation with Bellatrix's mother Druella. That left Voldemort no more easy avenues of avoidance, and he finally made his way to the corner where Bellatrix was holding a goblet of elf-made wine for dear life. When he walked up to her, she dipped a little and bowed her head.

"My Lord," she murmured, and her sisters dashed off with apparent fear. Voldemort sighed once Bellatrix's pretty eyes met his, and he quirked up half his mouth.

"You clean up well," he told her, and she smiled a little as she sipped from her wine. Very obviously emboldened by the alcohol, she told him,

"A tuxedo suits you, My Lord."

Voldemort swallowed hard and shrugged, unsure of what he ought to say just now. He felt at once as though the words he wanted to say to Bellatrix were far more easily conveyed through writing, and also as though the two of them could talk for hours. He felt like he knew her well now, after months of scribbling notes back and forth in their enchanted journals. This had not been an intended side effect of the charmed books. He finally chomped his lip and asked,

"Did you… have a good journey home from school?"

"Yes, My Lord. Thank you." Bellatrix turned her eyes away from him and noted, "My parents live here in London, so it's… erm… easy to get from the train to here, you know?"

"Bella." Voldemort shook his head, tired of pretending and posturing. When her eyes turned to him, he told her, "I don't care about your ride on the Hogwarts Express."

Bellatrix glanced around them as if to ensure that no one was listening. "What do you care about, My Lord?"

"My servant," he said simply, sipping from his tumbler of whiskey. Bellatrix's eyes flashed, and there was a smattering of applause in her uncle's parlour as the hired string quartet finished one Christmas tune and started up another.

"My cousins Sirius and Regulus live here," Bellatrix noted softly. "When I was younger, my sisters and I would play with them sometimes in the library upstairs."

"Library," Voldemort nodded. He sighed and looked around. Everyone at the party that meant to give him sycophantic attention had already done so. Everyone was tangled up in formal conversations or laughter-filled exchanges. The hors d'oeuvres had already been served and eaten. The wine and whiskey were flowing. Dancing would start soon enough. Voldemort squeezed the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and said down to Bellatrix, "I might… like to go sit in a library. Just for a little while."

"It's just this way, My Lord," Bellatrix said. She led him slowly and discreetly through the parlour and toward the staircase, and as she climbed, he couldn't help but notice the way her formal gown hugged her curves. His breath shook a little in his nostrils as he reminded himself that he'd come to this party to talk to Abraxas Malfoy about his loyalists in the Auror Department. He'd come to talk about pureblood families' donations to his cause with Cygnus Black III.

And if he was utterly honest with himself, he'd come to see the girl who had been writing to him for months.

"You were right, entirely right, with that list you sent me," he told her as they walked into a windowless library. Bellatrix flicked her wand at the fireplace, impressing the Dark Lord with her nonverbal magic as she cast a fire that set a glow upon the room. She turned round and nodded.

"The entire Prewett family are blood traitors, My Lord," she said. "Molly's brothers, Gideon and Fabian, are just as bad as her. And as for Molly, the rumour is that she means to marry Arthur Weasley immediately after they leave school. He's utterly obsessed with Muggles; he's roped Lucas Potter into late nights in the library researching them. Professor McGonagall eggs them on. She and Dumbledore are very friendly. I've been trying, My Lord, to watch them all as best I can."

"And the information you've given me is invaluable," Voldemort confirmed. It was true, too. He had spies outside of Hogwarts watching the grown-up Prewetts and Weasleys closely, and now that the students were home for holidays, he was tracking their every move. He tipped his head and said to Bellatrix,

"You've already proven your loyalty in the realm of espionage, Bella. I wonder… how else are you loyal?"

Her eyes went wide and her lips parted a little as he took a step closer to her. He couldn't help but ogle the gentle curve of her breasts in her low-cut gown, nor the way it showed off her narrow little waist. He couldn't help but study the red gleam on her lips, and suddenly he wanted to kiss her there. He'd never actually kissed a woman. He could never be bothered to do so, for women were very often distractions from the more important goals in his life.

When he'd been a handsome Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, the girls had fawned over him, but he'd gained more prestige by ignoring them. When he'd been a young man, women seemed like a way to cheapen himself. He was better than what he would do with them. Then he'd grown older and more determined in his quest for power, and there had never been time or space or energy to spare for a woman.

And Bellatrix wasn't even really a woman, Voldemort reminded himself. She had just barely come of age. She was in an evening gown tonight, but she'd be back in her Slytherin robes in just a few weeks. Suddenly he realised that she was home for a few weeks, that he might see her again outside of this party before she went back to school, and before he could stop himself, he set down his whiskey.

"I'd like to kiss you," he informed her matter-of-factly. He took her wine glass from her hands before she could say anything, and he put a hand on each of her cheeks. Her eyes searched his, and he informed her crisply, "This is different than when that stupid boy touched your leg in Potions class. You understand?"

"Yes, My Lord," Bellatrix whispered. Her own hands went to his sleeves, holding his arms as though she were afraid of falling. Voldemort lowered his face to hers, abruptly nervous in a way he couldn't remember being. He'd never been nervous about kissing a woman because he'd never kissed a woman. And he really couldn't say why he so badly wanted to kiss Bellatrix now, but he did want it, more than nearly anything.

She tasted like wine and her full lips were soft as he touched his mouth to hers. Her breath was warm and shaky; her hands squeezed on the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket. She was just as nervous as him. Voldemort pushed into her mind with nonverbal Legilimency and immediately sensed that she'd never been kissed, either. At least she was only seventeen. That was a better excuse for inexperience, Voldemort thought. She was frightened of what he might do to her if she displeased him. Voldemort pulled out of her mind and shook his head, whispering against her mouth,

"I am not displeased."

He kissed her again, his hands moving from her face as his lips pushed against hers. His right hand went to the small of her back and his left moved smoothly over the curls she'd swept back. Bellatrix moved her own hands from his sleeves to the front of his jacket, her palms pressing against his shirt. Suddenly Voldemort lost a little bit of his prized self-control; he pulled her more tightly against him and swept his tongue over Bellatrix's lip. She squealed quietly but opened her mouth, and Voldemort immediately pushed his tongue inside and dragged it over the roof of her mouth. Everything was warm and swimming in his head; he wanted nothing more than to undo the zip at the back of Bellatrix's dress and find out what she looked like wearing nothing but his Dark Mark.

"Oy! Sirius, while you're up there, grab some Gobstones, will you? I'm going to play with Narcissa!"

"That's my cousin Regulus." Bellatrix stumbled back a few steps, away from Voldemort, who realised at once that she could probably see the lump that had formed in his trousers. He dragged his fingers over his lips and saw the traces of her crimson lipstick on his skin. He pulled out his wand as a young boy of seven or eight dashed by in the corridor outside the library. Voldemort cast a nonverbal Scourgify on himself and on Bellatrix, cleaning up the mess her lipstick had made on the both of them.

Her cheeks were flushed and her breath was quick as she stared at him. Voldemort was ashamed, all of a sudden, at the way he'd let himself be so vulnerable and human with Bellatrix. She was hardly a woman. She was his servant. He was better than this. Better than her. He was her master. He'd be turning forty-two in…

He stopped, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He licked his lip and couldn't keep himself from saying,

"My birthday is… two weeks from today."

"Oh. Happy early birthday, My Lord." Bellatrix was considering whether she was supposed to get her master a gift. He could tell that without even peering in her mind. He gave her a meaningful look and said,

"I don't make a point of celebrating it. But it's on New Year's Eve, and…"

He trailed off then, not even sure of what he was trying to tell her. He gnawed his lip harder than ever, tasting a little blood, and he said,

"I'm based at Malfoy Manor for the time being. You're welcome there. On New Year's Eve. If you… decide to come."

Bellatrix nodded, dragging her thumb over her lip. "Yes. I'd like that. Thank you."

"Right. We should go downstairs separately, I think. You first." Voldemort hardened his voice, trying to remind the both of them that he was her master and she was his servant, that he was the ascending Dark Lord Voldemort. Bellatrix, being the lovely wicked thing that she was, gave him an obedient nod and walked quickly from the library, leaving him behind as though nothing strange had happened at all.

---

Black Family Residence

Kensington, London

December 1968

He'd kissed her.

Even hours after it had happened, as Bellatrix lay in her bed at her parents' house, staring at the ceiling with the dried salty streaks of old tears on her cheeks, she couldn't believe it. He'd left the party with her and he'd taken her face in his hands and he'd kissed her.

For months, she'd dreamed of him doing it. He was so handsome, with his chiseled face and his glittering eyes, but he was her lord and master. He was much older than her. He was so far beyond her plane of existence that it had seemed utterly impossible for him to ever really touch her. But Bellatrix had dreamed just the same.

He'd tasted like whiskey, like something warm and deep. Almost like black pepper, like something spicy and forbidden and delicious. His lips had trembled on hers, but his words had been certain and steady. She had no idea why he'd wanted to kiss her, nor why he'd invited her to Malfoy Manor on his birthday, but she was hardly about to protest. For months she'd dreamed of him, and for some reason tonight he'd decided to make those dreams manifest.

Bellatrix stared at the green leather journal he'd given her. She always slept with it on the mattress beside her, for it was the most treasured possession she had. She stared at it as though his soul was in the book itself, though of course that was a ludicrous thought. Bellatrix's eyes were heavy; it was past midnight and she'd had far too much to drink after his kiss. She was nearly asleep when she noticed something was different about the journal.

It had gone black.

Suddenly wide awake, Bellatrix snatched the journal and sat straight up in her bed. For a moment, she didn't open the book. She was afraid of what it would say. Perhaps he would be telling her that he'd made a mistake, that she hadn't been worth it, that it had just been the whiskey. Perhaps he'd order her to return the journal to him and just finish off her schooling. Bellatrix stared at the black cover of the journal, her breath coming in shallow pants as she forced her fingers to pry open the cover.

Bella, she read, his script far messier than it usually was. There was nothing else, and for a moment Bellatrix wondered if he was sitting at Malfoy Manor, sloshed from the whiskey and arbitrarily writing her name in the book. But then her name disappeared and new words immediately appeared.

You were almost inexcusably lovely tonight. Have a happy Christmas. I shall see you on the thirty-first at precisely nine o'clock at Malfoy Manor.

Bellatrix couldn't breathe. She pressed her fingers to his writing, and even as it faded away, she could taste him again. She managed to take her black quill from the table beside her bed, and her fingers shook like mad as she wrote,

Happy Christmas, My Lord.

---

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

31 December 1968

Bellatrix's fingers trembled around the little box in her hand. She strode up the gravel path that led to the expansive front doors of Malfoy Manor, and she gulped hard. She was trying to contemplate how to ask for him, how to let the inhabitants of the house know that she was there to see the Dark Lord at his invitation. Lucius Malfoy lived here, she knew. He was a few years younger than her and was close with Narcissa at school. What if it was Lucius to answer the door and not their House-Elf? How did Bellatrix explain that she'd come to see their Master on his birthday?

Fortunately, she didn't have to think much harder about that, because one of the massive doors opened, and the Dark Lord himself appeared. He stepped out into the frigid night, clad in elegant black robes over a white dress shirt and black tie. Bellatrix herself was shivering in her knee-length black velvet dress, even with the cloak over it, for it was the coldest night she could remember in a good long while. Her breath puffed before her as she approached Lord Voldemort, and she suddenly tasted their kiss at Grimmauld Place.

Her steps faltered a little as she walked up to him, for his face was stern and seemed angry. She paused, her boots scratching on the gravel, and the little smile she'd drummed up disappeared. He jerked his head toward the house and said grimly,

"Follow me."

Bellatrix did, her boots clacking obnoxiously on the marble floor of the house's foyer. It was still and quiet, despite it being a holiday, and Bellatrix couldn't help wondering if the Malfoys had been booted from their own house for the evening. She followed the Dark Lord up the wide, dark staircase to the house's first floor, then up another set of winding stairs. She trotted behind him through a shadowy corridor until he flung a door open with wandless magic. Bellatrix, awed as always by his power, followed him into the office, and when the door slammed shut behind her, she flinched.

"Legilimens," said Voldemort immediately, his voice dangerous. Bellatrix staggered back against the door from the force of him crashing into her mind. She felt queasy and dizzy as he rifled furiously through her thoughts. He was looking for something specific, Bellatrix could feel. Then she sensed it - the sort of memory he was seeking. He was trying to find evidence that she'd cursed him, proof that she'd secretly dosed him with some kind of potion. He was convinced she'd done something to make him weak for her, and he was looking for something to corroborate his suspicion.

He wouldn't find it. She'd not poisoned him or put a spell upon him, and all he found was the opposite. Suddenly a memory ripped forward, a picture of Bellatrix lying alone in her bed in her Slytherin dormitory, staring at the green journal as she wondered if someday she'd be allowed to be a real soldier for her lord. Another memory crashed up, and suddenly Bellatrix was walking down a street in London, murmuring to her somewhat concerned father that she would gladly fight and die for the Dark Lord. Then came the image of her holding his sleeves, of his glittering black eyes in the library at Grimmauld Place, and a powerful thought raced through Bellatrix's mind. He is perfection.

Finally Voldemort pulled out of Bellatrix's mind, his fingers dragging over the spines of the books on the shelves lining the walls. His face was very serious as he told Bellatrix,

"I needed to be certain you hadn't done anything to me. Anything Magical, that is. I can see you haven't. I apologise for the… for tearing through your mind like that. But it was necessary."

Bellatrix nodded, realising she'd dropped the little box from her hands in the course of having him in her mind. She bent to pick it up, and she held it out to him with trembling fingers.

"Happy birthday, My Lord," she said. He took the little box and nodded, pulling the black lid from the box and opening it. His face was a little strange then, his eyes gleaming oddly and his lips looking like they weren't sure what to do with themselves. He pulled out the sterling silver tie bar Bellatrix had bought for him in Diagon Alley, a carved serpent ornament, and he set the box down on the desk behind him.

"I admit I have no idea what sort of gifts men like," Bellatrix said worriedly, knitting her hands in front of her, "for I have no real experience with buying men's gifts, except for my father. He doesn't wear ties very often, but you do, so I… and, I apologise if I was wrong to assume you'd been a Slytherin."

She was rambling, she knew, but the Dark Lord dragged his thumb over the carved silver snake and shook his head.

"I was a Slytherin," he assured her. Then he slid the bar onto the black silk tie he wore, patting it once or twice and nodding. He raised his eyes to her and said quietly, "Thank you, Bella."

She smiled then, a real smile for the first time all night. She knew why he'd needed to ensure she hadn't tricked him into kissing her. She could understand his lack of trust. But she also saw something very powerful in his gaze as his black eyes studied hers.

"Do you know how I spent Christmas?" he asked rather unexpectedly, and Bellatrix shook her head.

"There was a Ministry employee who strongly suspected that a certain Auror worked for Lord Voldemort. He was right, of course, but I couldn't have him going about spreading such a compromising suspicion."

"Did you kill him, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, her heart racing a little. Voldemort smirked but shook his head.

"No, you wicked little thing. That would have been entirely too obvious. I spent hours on Christmas morning carefully Obliviating him and replacing his memories. I Confounded him a half dozen times. He went back to work on the twenty-sixth and will never again bear suspicion against me. That's how I spent my Christmas, Bella."

She couldn't help smiling a little as she admitted, "That sounds much more fun than the boring day I had."

Voldemort tipped his head and tucked Bellatrix's hair behind her ear, making her shiver. "You like that idea, don't you?" he murmured. "You like the idea of destroying someone's mind. I saw it in your memories; you want to torture and kill for me."

"I've always dreamed of casting the Cruciatus Curse," Bellatrix said. She'd never admitted that to anyone else, and Voldemort's eyebrows went up with what seemed like pleased surprise.

"And cast it you shall," he told her. "You'll be a fearsome force of Darkness for me, won't you, Bellatrix?"

"I'll be whatever you want me to be, My Lord," she assured him. He took a half step closer to her so that her back was against the door with him towering over her. He touched at her hair again and said quietly,

"Who you are will do just fine. There's a smoky cloak of cruelty all around your very being, Bella, and I admit I find it beautiful."

He kissed her then, his mouth lowering to hers and pressing more assuredly than he'd done at Grimmauld Place. His lips urged her mouth open at once, and Bellatrix rather boldly reached for his clean-shaven cheeks. He grunted softly and pushed his tongue into her mouth, his own hands settling on the waist of the black velvet dress she wore.

She suddenly understood. It wasn't just for security that he'd searched her mind. He was confused by the way his body wanted her, and she could tell right now that his body did want her. He'd needed to ensure that she hadn't tricked the Dark Lord into desiring his own servant.

If she'd tricked him, it hadn't been on purpose, and it seemed he understood that. But as he pressed her back against the door, his breath was rickety with want. The need radiated off him like heat from a flame. Bellatrix felt it in the marrow of her own bones; she desired the Dark Lord in a way she'd never known a woman could desire a man.

His fingers touched the skin just above her knee, trailing up a little on the inside of her leg. Bellatrix shivered and let her head fall back against the door as he asked her,

"Is this where he touched you? The Avery boy?"

Bellatrix nodded, wholly unable to speak. Voldemort pressed his palm to the skin, dragging his hand up toward Bellatrix's knickers as she went wet and warm from the inside out. He leaned to kiss her cheekbone, and he whispered,

"He touched you like this?"

"Not… not quite like this, My Lord," Bellatrix admitted, and her master let out a rumbling laugh. He stroked the inside of Bellatrix's thigh more firmly, and his other hand squeezed at her waist a little. Bellatrix shifted on her feet, suddenly overcome with the ache of arousal. Lord Voldemort touched his lips to her neck and mumbled,

"He wasn't even touching you this much, and yet you made his eyes bleed, didn't you? You wicked little thing… you made that boy's eyes bleed just for putting a hand on you."

"Yes, I did," Bellatrix said, her hands going to the Dark Lord's cheeks again. He put his mouth on hers, crushing her with a bruising kiss that elicited a helpless moan from Bellatrix. When he pulled his mouth away, he stared at her and demanded,

"And what will you do to your master for touching your leg, Bella?"

"Anything you want," she whispered. Her fingers dusted over the tie bar she'd brought him, and when she raised her eyes, he looked so hungry that she was almost afraid. He shut his eyes and stood up, away from her, and her squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

"You need to leave," he said, sending a shock through Bellatrix. He sighed heavily and glared at her. "If you don't leave, I'm going to do something that… I'll do a lot more than touch your leg, Bella."

She was breathless at that, and she shrugged. "I wouldn't mind."

He licked his bottom lip and shook his head. "Go home, Bella, before I do something we'll both regret. Thank you for the birthday gift. Keep your journal near you."

She knew better than to argue with him, despite the way his orders had crushed her a little. She nodded and reached for the handle on the door behind her. She was prepared to go, but suddenly Voldemort said in an angry voice,

"You like orange in your tea. Or milk. Not both at once, obviously. You don't like lemon. You hate warm summers; you love the rain. Outside of your school uniform, you only ever really wear black. Except for that one time your mother made you wear green for a family portrait. You and Andromeda are polar opposites; Narcissa's much younger but acts like she's the eldest. You only go to Quidditch matches because you have friends on the team. You think Gobstones is an idiotic game. You like Potions. You think Defence Against the Dark Arts is a joke at worst or a learning manual for the Dark Arts at best. You nearly failed Muggle Studies last term. A week before the Christmas holidays, you fell asleep in the library because the book you were reading was so dull. Your favourite Christmas gift was an enchanted weather globe from your father. Have I got it all right?"

Bellatrix nodded solemnly. He knew all of that because of how they'd communicated through their journals. She knew less detail about him, but she knew a good deal about what he liked and disliked and how he spent his days. And she knew why he was bringing it up now. It wasn't just that he lusted after her. It was something significantly more frightening than that.

"Go home, Bella," he whispered, and Bellatrix nodded.

"Happy birthday, My Lord," she told him firmly, turning the handle on the door and disappearing without another word.

---

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

3 January 1969

Where are you?

Voldemort had written the three words after debating all morning whether to do so. He'd considered Summoning her through her Dark Mark. He'd considered showing up at her parents' house and pretending he needed to meet with her father. He'd considered throwing his journal into the fire and never speaking to her again.

Instead he'd written the three simple words asking her where she was, three words that meant far too much just now. He shut his eyes and tossed his journal down on his desk, angrily snatching up a letter that had come by owl an hour earlier. He'd already read it; it was a letter of intent from Macnair's brother, wishing to formally join Voldemort's ranks. He'd already responded to the letter, so rereading it now was utterly pointless. But he read it, and he read it again, and even when he saw his journal go black, he made no move to pick it up.

Finally, he couldn't help himself, and he balled the letter from Rivinius Macnair up and slammed it onto his desk. He grabbed his journal, expecting that he wouldn't keep himself from going to her parents' house, where he suspected she was. But then he read her response, and his stomach yanked almost painfully.

I am on the train back to school, My Lord.

He was too late. He'd hemmed and hawed for the last four days over contacting her, thinking of myriad ways to tell her he wanted her, ways to tell her she needed to stay away, ways of demanding she come to him and give him what he wanted. But he'd held off, trying to convince himself to go about his business without thinking of her. That hadn't worked at all, and today he'd finally scrawled the words asking her where she was. But he was too late.

He picked up his black quill, its nib scratching roughly on the page as he wrote, When is the first Hogsmeade trip of the term?

There was a long break of nothing after his words sank into the page. There was such an extensive nothing, in fact, that Voldemort thought perhaps he'd been too forward and he wouldn't get a reply at all. He was about to write something angrily instructing Bellatrix not to inform him, but then hastily scrawled words appeared.

Apologies, My Lord; the Trolley Witch was here. The next Hogsmeade trip is the first weekend in February. Do you need me for something before then?

He froze as he read that. Yes, he needed her, or at least he wanted her. He shut his eyes and remembered the feel of her hands on his face, the way she'd moaned against his mouth, and he shivered a little. He put his quill to the page and wrote simply,

The first weekend of February will do fine. Be at the Doxy's Nest, Room Eight, at noon the day you go into town.

He set the journal down, not waiting for an answer. He had work to do.

---

Hogsmeade

1 February 1969

"So," said Dahlia Greengrass as the sixth-year Slytherin girls walked down the muddy path, "I need to go to Spintwitches."

"Sporting goods?" Ophelia Selwyn wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "You're entirely too invested in playing Quidditch, Dahlia."

"I need new gloves!" Dahlia said, throwing up her hands and complaining, "I'm getting callouses from my worn-out old ones. Rabastan Lestrange works us to death in practise."

"Well, it's important that we beat the everliving scum out of Gryffindor, isn't it?" laughed Fiona Macnair. Bellatrix smirked and told Dahlia,

"Sounds like you're on your own. Good luck finding gloves."

Dahlia huffed but waved to the other girls as she made her way down the street. Ophelia Selwyn rubbed at her arms in the snowy air and said,

"I could go for a nice cuppa. Anyone up for Madam Pudifoot's?"

"Ooh. Yes. Me." Fiona Macnair held up a mittened hand, and both girls looked at Bellatrix expectantly. She gave them an apologetic shrug and said honestly,

"I'm meeting a visitor at the Doxy's Nest."

"A visitor?" Ophelia cocked up and eyebrow and grinned. "Would that be Rodolphus Lestrange, by any chance?"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Rodolphus had left Hogwarts a few years earlier and worked at the Ministry now. There were murmurs among the Pureblood community that perhaps Bellatrix might marry Rodolphus after she left school, but for now Bellatrix shrugged and said lightly,

"I don't kiss and tell."

"Well. Hmm… enjoy yourself, but be careful, eh?" Ophelia pointed her wand at Bellatrix's abdomen. "Nongravidare. You're welcome."

"Ophelia!" Bellatrix cried, feeling the powerful contraceptive spell take hold. Fiona Macnair giggled madly.

"If you don't need it, don't use it," shrugged Ophelia. "We're off to get tea. Bye!"

"Bye, then." Bellatrix turned back toward the shadowy end of the street to the crooked-looking building that held the Doxy's Nest. She pushed open the heavy, creaking door and found a goblin perched upon a stool at the cramped desk in the tiny front room. It couldn't properly be called a lobby; it was really just a coat rack and a desk with a few keys behind it. Bellatrix shook the snow off her school cloak and stomped her feet on the worn rug in the entry.

"Room Eight, eh?" asked the goblin in a voice long worn with years and smoke. He set down his pipe and gestured up the stairs. "He's already up there."

"Thank you," Bellatrix mumbled, realising immediately why the Dark Lord had chosen this location instead of the Hog's Head or anything vaguely public. She climbed the narrow steps, thinking over the past month.

Nearly every day, she'd communicated with the Dark Lord in their journals. Sometimes she told him important information, like when some of the Slytherin boys had been talking in the common room about wanting to follow Voldemort after leaving school. Sometimes she wrote about Dumbledore and the ways he was obviously trying to sway students to his side. The Dark Lord informed her about his plants at the Ministry, about the way her father was fundraising for him.

He also wrote one time about accidentally biting into a mealy apple that had ruined a morning. She'd written about receiving entirely unjust marks on a Transfiguration essay. He wrote about the cold rain in Wiltshire; she'd replied that it was snowing up in Scotland. He'd asked her if he'd gone too far on New Year's Eve. She'd assured him that he had not.

But last night, the only message she'd received had been a single line reminding her to be at the Doxy's Nest today at noon. As if she could forget, Bellatrix thought as she neared the top of the stairs. She knew what he wanted of her, and though she couldn't express such a thing to the other girls, she'd been grateful for the notoriously promiscuous Ophelia's contraceptive charm. Bellatrix couldn't be certain that the Dark Lord would do anything to her to necessitate the charm, but the misbehaving part of her mind couldn't help dreaming about such a thing. In fact, she'd dreamed it in lurid detail the night before, waking up drenched in sweat and wet between her legs.

Now she raised her fist to knock on the door of Room Eight. Before her knuckles could touch the wood, the door creaked open, and her master stood in the threshold. He curled up half his mouth and reached out to tuck her curls behind her ear.

"Hello, Bella."

---

The Doxy's Nest, Hogsmeade

1 February 1969

He shut the door behind her, and she stepped into the wood-paneled room with its slightly dingy, chunky furniture. The faint scent of rose that she brought into the room with her made Voldemort a little dizzy. He kept his hand on the door for a moment and just watched as Bellatrix set her rucksack down on the trunk by the foot of the bed.

"Did you get your marks up with McGonagall?" he asked finally, and Bellatrix scoffed.

"Yes, My Lord. She's a wench, but even she couldn't give me poor marks when I managed to Transfigure a pillow into a shoe."

"A pillow into a show, eh?" Voldemort picked up a dusty pillow from the bed and pushed it into Bellatrix's arms. "Show me."

She smiled crookedly and pulled out her wand, looking strangely pretty as she tapped her wand at four points on the pillow and murmured, "Calceatus."

The pillow shifted and stretched until its frilly fabric turned to black leather. The shape of the pillow firmed up and shrank, and soon enough Bellatrix was holding a high-heeled black shoe in her hands. She held it up proudly to Lord Voldemort, who took it and ran his fingers over its black satin laces.

"Well done," he told her, tossing the shoe down onto the bed. "Full marks were received, I'm sure." He stepped closer to Bellatrix and brushed his thumb beneath her eye and said, "I didn't tell you to come here so that you could Transfigure me a shoe."

"No?" Bellatrix tipped her head up and covered his hand with hers. "Why did you tell me to come, My Lord?"

He stepped even closer, until he was standing over her. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted. Really, he'd just wanted to be in the same room as her. He wanted to smell the rose on her hair and look into her eyes, the eyes that would one day kill for him without question. He thought aloud then, not censoring himself for her, as he mused,

"I could throw you down onto this dusty, lumpy old bed and shove your knickers aside and fuck you in that school uniform. I could shove you down onto your knees and fuck your mouth until you gagged and cried. I could bend you over on this trunk and hold your hair while I took you from behind. And you wouldn't complain, would you?"

She shook her head silently. Her lovely alabaster cheeks had gone scarlet and her eyes were glittering with something Voldemort couldn't quite place. He cupped her jaw in his hand and touched his lips to hers as he whispered,

"But I don't want to fuck you, Bella. Do you know why?"

"No," Bellatrix breathed. "Why?"

"Because if you pick an apple before it's ripe, it sours," Voldemort told her. When she looked confused, he specified, "Not that you are an apple, Bella. You know what I mean. You've still got two years of school, Bellatrix. I am a patient man. I can wait until you're…"

"Ripe?" she said the word with great distaste, her face twisting with distaste. He laughed a little and rolled his eyes.

"A very bad analogy, then. I'm sorry. What I mean to say is that I won't take something like that from you before it seems… appropriate."

Bellatrix pursed her lips and sounded almost impudent as she said, "There is nothing you could do to me, My Lord, that would feel inappropriate."

Voldemort squeezed her cheek a little and kissed her, bringing his lips down to hers as he murmured, "I won't destroy my servant with the greatest potential."

"With all due respect, My Lord…" Bellatrix whispered, "how could it be that you taking me for your own, even more than I am yours now, would be a way of destroying me?"

He pulled away a little, confused, and Bellatrix reached up bravely to stroke his cheek. She gave him a very serious look, an expression that went far beyond her seventeen years, and her voice was low and husky as she told him,

"Nothing you could do to me would destroy me, My Lord. Any touch, any breath, any kiss… anything at all from you… the power of your very presence is like Transfiguring a plain old rock into a diamond. But if you deem it destruction, then, My Lord, I beg you to destroy me."

"Bella." He closed his eyes, taking a half step back from her. "I have an empire to build; I do not need temptation from a little girl."

She said nothing, but when he opened her eyes, she was staring at him like she hadn't eaten in a week. She nodded.

"As you wish, My Lord. Whatever pleases you."

He had her on her back before she knew what was happening, and she was yanking on his tie. He shoved her back against the bed, hiking up her school skirt and wondering just what he had been thinking the day he'd handed her a journal in this very room.

---

The Doxy's Nest, Hogsmeade

1 February 1969

He let her loosen his black tie and slide it up over his head, and it was then she noticed he'd worn the tie bar she'd given him for his birthday. Her hands shook so badly as she unbuttoned his waistcoat that she could barely do it. He slid off his outer robe and let it fall, and as Bellatrix opened his black shirt, his hands ran up and down her thighs. His eyes glittered madly and his breath came hard and fast, and his fingers hooked inside the waistband of Bellatrix's knickers. Once he'd pushed everything off his chest, Bellatrix moaned a little.

The sight of him standing there, toned and sinewy enough to send shivers up her spine, was entirely too much. The feel of him sliding her knickers down over her legs, of his fingers touching the wet place between her thighs, was so much that she couldn't breathe. And the way one of his hands worked at the zipper at her waist made her eyes wrench shut.

"You're frightened," he guessed without entering her mind, but Bellatrix shook her head against the worn-out brocade coverlet.

"No, My Lord," she managed, her voice distant to her own ringing ears. "I am not afraid."

"No?" He started pulling off her black outer robe, and she wriggled to help him get off her tank and her tie and her white button-up shirt. He leaned down once the only thing left on her was her white lace bra, and as he cupped her breast in his hand, he whispered near her ear, "You're not afraid of me, Bella?"

"I… am afraid of your power. I am in awe of you. I can't be as afraid of you as I probably should, My Lord," she admitted, her back arching up as he pulled down her skirt with one hand and used the other to reach behind for the clasp of her bra. Bellatrix gulped as she realised she was naked to him now, and all she could do was hope he didn't find her hideous.. His weight shifted a few times as he kicked off his shoes, and then his hands went to the placket of his trousers. He unbuttoned them and pulled them off with his black underwear, halfheartedly folding them and laying them on the trunk at the end of the bed.

Bellatrix gawked. She couldn't help herself. His skin was pale and milky in the lamplight. His muscles - all of them - seemed taut and just thick enough. His manhood, which did frighten her a little, stood at attention, jutting out from his hips as he stroked it a few times and asked in a tight voice,

"Do you require a contraceptive spell?"

She shook her head and croaked out, "I've already had one."

"Little minx," he told her, shaking his head, "to assume you'd be receiving me like this."

"Actually, it was my friend Ophelia," said Bellatrix. He scowled and demanded,

"You told her you were coming here to meet me?"

"No, My Lord," Bellatrix amended quickly. "She thought it was Rodolphus Lestrange. She assumed. It... doesn't matter."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. When he jerked his head toward the bed, she pulled herself back and onto it. She tossed aside the shoe she'd Transfigured for him and started to arrange herself on the pillows, but the Dark Lord said sharply,

"Hands and knees."

Bellatrix obeyed him, although it was much more intimidating to bare herself like this to him. She shut her eyes and gasped when he knelt behind her and dragged his fingers around her sopping wet entrance. She heard him gasp, as if the feel of her had surprised him somehow. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, Bellatrix murmured over her shoulder,

"I'm sorry, My Lord; I've never done this before."

"Neither have I," he answered at once. Bellatrix blinked her eyes open, utterly shocked that he'd said such a thing. He seemed very serious, and when Bellatrix opened her mouth to ask what he'd meant, his fingers stilled on her and he said, "Until that night at Grimmauld Place, I'd never kissed a woman, Bellatrix, and up until this very moment I've never taken one. Women have always been dreadful distractions, in my experience."

Bellatrix tried to speak through the sensation of his fingers on her quim, and she finally asked, "Am I not a distraction, My Lord?"

He licked his lip. "I find it to be a much bigger distraction to ignore you. This will probably hurt. Try not to be loud."

He took his cock in his hand and lined himself up with Bellatrix, and when he pushed in, she was forced to drop down onto her elbows and burrow her face into the ragged pillows. It was the only way she could muffle the cry that ripped itself from her throat. She was being stretched, and a tearing sensation gave way to a fiery burn. She wrenched her eyes shut and tried to focus on the way his hands were going from her waist to her breasts, around to her back and then to her waist again. He pumped himself slowly in and out, and every time he did, a fresh feeling of invasion took Bellatrix over. The pain gradually faded, giving way to an intense but quiet pleasure. Behind her, Voldemort's breath was rickety, and little groans came from him every now and then, but for the most part he moved in silence. Finally he jerked his hips a bit harder against Bellatrix, and she turned her face from the pillows to look at him over her shoulder. His face contorted like he was in pain, but when he whispered a single word, she could tell he felt only satisfaction.

"Bella…"

His hands tightened on her waist, and Bellatrix felt a little trail of wetness leaking out between them. She stayed still, for he hadn't ordered her to do anything else. She wondered absently if she was indeed destroyed in some way now. She couldn't care. It had been him to do this. Her lord and master, her beautiful captain, her splendid commander. It had been him to plunder her like this, and as she lay sweaty and dusty and covered in his essence, she felt more clean than ever.

He pulled himself away from her after a moment, picking up his wand and casting nonverbal spells that visibly cleaned his skin and neatened his messy hair. He aimed his wand at Bellatrix and mumbled, " Tergeo. Scourgify. Go ahead and get dressed."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix rose from the bed, feeling awfully sore. She must have been walking funny, because the Dark Lord reached for her wrist and pulled her close, and he brushed his wand up her thigh as he whispered,

"Allevio."

The aching between Bellatrix's legs went away at once, and she flashed a little smile up to her lord.

"Thank you," she told him, and she didn't just mean for the pain relief. He nodded, took her jaw in one hand, and planted a careful kiss on her lips. But then he said quietly,

"This… this, Bella… it means nothing. You understand? I am your master."

"I understand, My Lord." Bellatrix had more than enjoyed what he'd done to her, but she had brought him pleasure, and that had been the purpose. She'd be a fool to expect anything more, and she didn't. She didn't expect anything at all from Lord Voldemort, much less the way he was stroking beneath her eye as his lips touched hers again.

"Get dressed and go back to school," he said against her mouth, almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than her that she needed to go. Finally, he stood up straight and reached for his trousers, and Bellatrix rushed to dress herself. She pulled on her school uniform like she did on mornings when she woke late and missed breakfast and was dashing off to lessons. Her skirt and her shirt and tie and tank and robes were on in moments, and as she slipped on her shoes, she realised Voldemort had dressed almost as efficiently. He was tightening up his tie, an action that seemed strangely erotic to Bellatrix.

"You'll keep me apprised of the activities of our enemies," he told her crisply. "Dumbledore. McGonagall. Even Flitwick; it sounds as though he's thoroughly on Dumbledore's side. The students… Weasley and the Prewetts. The Potter boy, and… yes, your sister."

Bellatrix had made it clear that Andromeda did not share the Black family's commitment to blood purity. She nodded and told the Dark Lord,

"I shall update you whenever I notice anything at all, My Lord."

She wondered suddenly when she might see him again. Their next Hogsmeade trip wasn't until April, for some reason that seemed like a very long while away.

"Go back to school, Bella," he said again, bending to kiss her forehead. Then he sat on the trunk at the foot of the bed and watched her go.

---

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

14 February 1969

"My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy gave a polite little bow as he came walking into Voldemort's office. It might have been a strange thing to do, owing to the fact that Malfoy owned this manor and the two men had been friends at school decades earlier. But Tom Riddle was long gone, and Abraxas Malfoy was terrified of Lord Voldemort.

"Sit." Voldemort gestured to the chair across his desk and gave Abraxas an expectant look. "Well?"

Abraxas pulled out a thin file folder and put it on Voldemort's desk, sliding it across to his master. Voldemort opened the file folder and read through the few pages inside as Malfoy explained,

"Very little information so far on the Prewetts, My Lord. We have their address in Holbeck, Leeds. We know the father manufactures cauldrons at a factory. The mother stays home. There are three at Hogwarts right now; two more have yet to go off to school. They're pureblood but financially destitute and have no interaction with the Pureblood community. They have several family friends who are Mudbloods."

Voldemort nodded. He thought of all the information Bellatrix had given him, and he told Abraxas, "I'm confident that the girl, Molly, and her brothers Fabian and Gideon are already working with Dumbledore in some capacity. Once they leave school, they'll be full-blown soldiers for him. I have a spy inside the school tracking the students; let's keep a close eye on the parents and determine what their involvement in any movement against me might be. If we have to take them out, we will."

"Yes, My Lord." Abraxas gathered the little folder up and said rather meekly, "If there's nothing else, My Lord, I'm meant to take the wife for dinner, but I can stay if you -"

"Go." Voldemort waved his hand dismissively. Abraxas was his servant, not his friend. He curled up his mouth and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, then."

"Of course, My Lord. And to you, as well. Hmm. Good evening." Abraxas rose and bowed again just before leaving the office. Voldemort locked and warded the door behind him, sighing as he rubbed at his forehead. Sometimes he relished the sycophantic behaviour of his lackeys, the way they tripped over themselves to gain his favour. Other times it was tiresome, and just now he thought he wanted something a little different.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out his green journal and his black quill pen. It was almost nine o'clock, and he thought Bellatrix would have lessons in the morning. He thought about writing to ask if she was awake. Then he realised it was Friday, and she was almost certainly up. He pursed his lips and opened the journal, scribbling with his quill,

Do they still throw those ghastly Valentine's Parties in the Slytherin Common Room?

He waited a moment after the ink faded through the page, drumming his fingers on his desk. Her answer came sooner than he'd expected, and she wrote neatly,

They do, My Lord. I can hear the music thumping from here.

Voldemort frowned and wrote back, Where is 'here'?

There was a longer pause, and he wondered if perhaps she wasn't in a position to be scribbling into her enchanted journal. But then her words appeared, more crisp and controlled than usual.

I'm in my dormitory, Master. I wasn't in the mood for a silly dance party, and I was especially not in the mood for the flirtations of boys who've had firewhisky. So I'm working on an essay for Professor Binns instead.

Voldemort smirked a little. Professor Binns, the History of Magic professor, was a ghost whose courses were as dull as it was possible for a lesson to be. Voldemort smiled a little to himself as he wrote,

I'm not sure which is worse - the unhinged hedonism of a Slytherin House party for Valentine's Day, or the soul-aching dullness of an essay for Binns.

I'm questioning all that myself, My Lord, came the reply, and Voldemort couldn't help but smile more. His fingers went on instinct to the page, to drift over her words before they vanished. He thought about telling her that he was collecting more information on the Prewetts, but she already knew that. They'd discussed it the other day. So instead he acted an utter fool and wrote to her,

If I was there, Bella, you wouldn't be writing an essay. And you wouldn't be at a stupid party.

He regretted the message the instant he wrote it. He gnawed his lip hard and shut his eyes, feeling abruptly embarrassed. When he opened his eyes, Bellatrix had written back,

What would I be doing, My Lord?

His fingers gripped his quill tightly, and for a moment he wrote nothing. He should tell her to get good marks on her History essay, he thought. He should tell her to stop being a killjoy and go to the party with the rest of her House. He should remind her to keep doing her work for him. Instead he wrote in messy script,

You would be pinned beneath me, begging me for mercy as I pounded you into your sheets.

There was no reply to that, and Voldemort started to panic. After a while, he slammed the journal shut and slid it across his desk, rescuing it from falling at the last moment with a nonverbal, wandless Summoning charm. It shot back into his hand, and he gripped it as hard as he could. It still did not turn black. Voldemort slammed the journal down on his desk, very angry with himself for losing his control with Bellatrix. She made him think and act in ways no other woman - or any person, for that matter - had managed to do. She tempted him. She pleased him.

On one hand, he regretted ever touching her. He should never have even brushed his fingers over her flesh when he'd put his Dark Mark on her. It had all started there. Then there were the stupid journals, the way that her words had sent him careening into an experience he'd never wanted. Four months later, there had been kissing and caressing and, yes, fucking. He'd taken her body; she had taken a part of his soul. It had been against his will. It had been stealing. And, yet, he found himself utterly unable to be cross with her. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the journal had gone black, and he tried very hard not to pick it up. But he did pick it up, and when he opened it, he couldn't breathe.

My Lord, I confess that I've done something very indecent based on the last message you wrote.

Voldemort shut his eyes, picturing everything that could mean. He bent over his desk and wrote, Did you touch yourself, you wicked little thing?

Yes, came the almost immediate answer, followed quickly by, Are you angry with me, Master?

No, he responded at once. He gulped hard and added, Write your essay tomorrow. Go let the boys flirt with you.

There was a long pause, but then she wrote back, As you command, My Lord.