Punishment and Reward
DISCLAIMER: I, of course, do not own anything.
Authors note: This is my take on how a physical relationship between Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort would have looked alongside the original plots JK Rowling set out for us. I hope you enjoy, please leave a review and let me know what you think!
Agony ripped through his body like hot knives as he recovered from his possession of the boy. Hatred bubbled through his veins, threatening to explode. Physical pain like he had never felt before throbbed through each of his long extremities, and the hatred that accompanied that agony threatened to split his head in two. His ears were ringing uncontrollably; his sharp red eyes were struggling to focus. Things had gone wrong, more than wrong. Again. He vaguely felt a tug on his robes. He did not even need to glance down to know what it was. She grappled at his feet, the very epitome of pathetic, screeching mercy to a wizard who did not know of mercy. A flash of movement at his eye level gave him a moment's clarity through the torment. Dumbledore was raising his wand. He ripped the black sleeved arm groveling at his cloak's hem up, gripping it with his long fingers, spinning himself and the woman from the Ministry. As the familiar pressing sensation of apparition began he caught a glimpse, accidentally, of the dark watery eyes, opened wide in shock and fear at the fury burning behind his own eyes. He gripped her tighter still, feeling the hot anger emitting from his powerful hands. They whipped out of sight, the crowd billowing into the Ministry blurring as he tore his gaze from his follower's.
They landed hard on the hard wooden floor of the Riddle mansion. Dust billowed up at her body's impact as he threw her to the ground, flicking her presence off him, disgust beating in his heart as though she were rancid and unclean. The physical pain seemed to be leaving his extremities and his body, it was traveling, growing as it moved and merged with the rage in the pit of his stomach up to his head. He screamed in desperate, furious anguish as it exploded in his brain. His skull was certainly splitting in two as he screamed. The figure in front of him, the blur of billowing dark hair and robes over a thin pale body was scrambling to its feet. The white face and massive dark eyes filled with fear were starting to turn toward him. He yelled again, his voice hoarse and powerful as he swished his wand like a whip, knocking her face aside with an invisible force, throwing her stumbling backwards. She caught herself, and began turning her face towards him again. He yelled, whipping his wand hard across her, advancing on her and she stumbled back with the blow. Her dark hair obscured her face as she whimpered. She backed herself against a large cobwebbed chase as her master moved in on her. The pain was leaving him now, but the fury was not. There was no escaping his fury. There was no escaping what had just happened in the Ministry of Magic and there was no escaping how very wrong it had gone.
He reached her, seizing her jaw and retching it away from him, he would kill her if he saw her miserable, guilty face again. It took every ounce of control in him not to obliterate her right there. He wretched her face, grabbing her hair and forced her around away from him, shoving her head down, bending her in half, his wand still held tight in his hand as he handled her. It was as white hot as his rage, and he held it firmly in his palm, holding it fully along the side of her face. With his free hand he ripped at the lacy black dress, tearing it apart along her back, pulling it from her body with no mercy. He felt her trying to turn back to him, but he only pulled harder at her hair and forced her face further down, smothering her in the body of the chase. He pressed his own robed body against her backside, daring her to move a muscle as he removed his hand from the back of her head to rip open the bottom half of his own cloak. She held her head up, gasping, turning it towards him…
"My Lor…."
But he just slapped the side of her face, wrenching it painfully back, thrusting her into the smothering chase. She could only give a shocked cry before he shoved her nose back into the cushion. He held her down, pushing her further and harder into the moth eaten fabric at each of her attempts to surface. With his other hand and its long merciless fingernails he grabbed at her lower leg, lifting it onto the chase and forcing it outwards, pushing his lower body harder against her. He switched hands, wrenching her neck upwards by her hair to allow her a desperate gasp and a moan of fear and anticipation before he forced her incompetent face back into the fabric. He lifted her other leg onto the chase, spreading her to his needs, shoving two long sharp fingers into her like a hook, moving her to where he needed her. He glanced at her ringed hand grasping at the chase fabric, her knuckles were white. He used his free hand to free his waist from his open cloak; he guided himself inside of her, shoving her head down again, ensuring she could not see him as he entered her with the raw strength of the fury that pulsed through his body.
He had done this before, of course. This was how he punished her, and how he rewarded her. His most faithful servant. The servant that knew his body, who knew how to release him. Her undying, pathetic admiration and obsession with her Lord had never died in her decade of incarceration. And he rewarded her for it, rewarded her like no other follower had ever been rewarded. She had deserved rewarding again, for other reasons. She was there for him for every flash of anger or success he had, she alone celebrated with him, or felt his wrath. Other times, she deserved punishment. And now, more than ever, more than anyone, she needed to be punished. He thrust deeper, harder, more mercilessly into her.
Muffled moans were coming from the cushions. He ripped her back up by her hair again, yanking her neck up. She gave a loud, shocked gasp, bending backwards with his pull, small, breathless gasps with each deep thrust. He held her hair back, forcing her to gape up at the ceiling as he lifted her back upright, her back arched against his robed front as he stood, moving deep inside of her. Her body stopped resisting him; he could see the tips of her eyelashes flutter as her eyes closed with pleasure. He ran his free hand, his long cold fingers along her arched body. She shuddered and moaned at the rare touch, elusive ecstasy to her. She gasped differently, fast and sharp, neediness in her rattling breath. She reached her arms back and grasped fistfuls of the robes that curtained him, daring to pull him closer, forgetting herself and her place. The instant her small ringed hands closed around his robes he forced her back down with remarkable strength and speed. She didn't even have time to cry out in surprise before she was jammed deep into the cushion, her back forced down in an impossible arch and her wrists wretched from his robes and pinned down with an iron grip on either side of her head. She could feel him lowering over her, his weight looming down on her as he moved faster and deeper yet. She could feel his cold breath against her ear, his closeness sent a chilling fear down her spine, and she knew she dare not turn her face. She could only bite the cushion in an effort not to scream out as his clawed hands gripped her wrists with immeasurable strength and he thrust with the speed and the intensity of his racing, furious mind. He moved faster and faster over her, suddenly biting the top of her ear, sending warm blood trickling down the side of her face. He bit with excruciating force, thrusting three times more, each long and impactful, hitting her inside with the force of a swung bat. She released the cushion from her own mouth and cried out despite herself as he charged her one last time.
He released her ear and spit a spray of her own blood into her hidden face as he released her wrists and slowly raised himself off of her. She did not dare grab her ear for fear of showing of weakness. She felt him slide out of her, she gingerly picked herself up and decided to face what was coming and turned slowly around on the chase. Her body ached terribly from his touch, but she yearned desperately for it again, almost painfully so. She understood now, what he had done. She could help but to wince as she moved her legs as she turned; she had been punished. She was being denied while he released some of his anger. Her large dark eyes travelled slowly upwards, lingering on the body being curtained by the open cloak. He snapped it shut, and she dared to meet his eyes. They were a furious deep red, narrowed at her with a look of upmost disgust. She recoiled at his stony impassionate gaze, dread filling her again even as she resisted the urge to rip open his robes and feel the very body she had always been denied. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed heavily, unconsciously allowing her gaze to fall again to his body. He spit in disgust, more blood spraying from his lips and raised his wandless hand to her, striking her across the cheek with the boney back of his hand. Utmost revulsion etched his face as he turned away, redoing his robes, refusing to look at his disgraced follower, who sat silently and naked in a fray of torn fabric.
"My…"
"I did not hear the prophecy. No one did. Half my Death Eaters have been captured and the whole damn Ministry knows." His tone was even and chillingly icy; his back was turned to her; Nagini was slowly slithering into the room, whispering in soft hisses at him.
"My… my lo…"
"Do you realize what has happened?" he bellowed, still turned away, fighting the urge to kill one his last faithful followers just as Nagini slid her cold body up his and curled over his shoulders. Her weight brought an unusual sense of ease, although slight in the wake of his fury still calmed his trembling wand hand.
"Of course I do, my Lord…"
"Get out!" he turned back towards her, finding her standing, still indecent in her lacy torn rags.
"My…"
"OUT!" He sent a wave of stinging hexes at her with tiny flicks of his wand, branding her with hot red welts until she had managed to scramble to her wand in a fit of cries and apparated from his mutinous presence.