Her Lord
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Bellatrix Lestrange would torture and kill just about anyone who knew so, but she slept with the whisper of Lord Voldemort's name - or, rather, "My Lord" - dying on her lips every night as the glow of her self-induced climax faded.
Bellatrix Lestrange would torture and kill just about anyone, regardless of what they knew about her, because it was just the kind of thing that got her off.
As she rolled over in her sleep and mumbled a wickedly delighted Cruciatus Curse at an imagined bumblebee, the lipless, pale, flattened face of her dearest obsession loomed high above her, as if he were God.
"Yo, bitch!"
"M-my Lord!" Bellatrix cried, looking up into Voldemort's huge face and grinning manically. "You've blessed my dreams! This is surely Legilimency?!"
"What?"
"I said-"
"Oh, god, put those away."
Bellatrix re-cloaked her breasts, not even aware that she had been flashing them. "My apologies, My Lord." Then she frowned. "My Lord is speaking most oddly..."
Voldemort's face frowned and disappeared. Bellatrix was very sad about this.
"Come back! Take me!" she screeched into the empty air. "Make me your whore!"
"Ewwww," Voldemort's voice hissed.
Bellatrix awoke to find Voldemort standing at the foot of her bed. Without a word, she opened her legs, freeing a frantic bat, and a spirit made of smoke.
"Manners, Bellatrix," Voldemort said softly, raising his wand. Pointing it at her cauldron, he whispered:
"Crucio."
Bellatrix shrieked with agonized joy as the immense, immeasurable, unimaginable pain exploded through her whatsit, centralizing just so and sending shredding, tearing, burning, boiling sensations over her g-spot. This was living!
And then Voldemort made her head explode. The ultimate climax.
"My Lord," she would have whispered gratefully, had she still had a head.
And then a flaming ghost erupted from Voldemort's urethra and burned everything because wizarding gonorrhea sucks.