Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The world was theirs. The final battle had been fought and won, Harry Potter had been killed on the battleground, his head placed on a high stake for all to see. After their victorious retreat, the Dark Lord and his followers had returned to Riddle Mansion for the evening's celebrations. Prisoners (mostly women) had been brought as well so as to provide entertainment for the ravenous Death Eater troops who took their prey and scurried to more secluded areas. The inner circle, however, remained in their seats which formed a half circle around the Dark Lord's armchair.

"Tomorrow we will have a press conference. The new heads of department will be announced; I trust you all remember and are contented with your given positions?" Voldemort said, looking around at his followers who nodded, small smiles on their faces.

"I suggest you start preparing your acceptance speeches for when you are sworn into office, the people need to be assured, because otherwise they will start to rebel, and an empire is most vulnerable at its birth."

"What about the muggles and muggleborns, milord?" Avery muttered, staring intently at his master.

"They will be left alone for the time being. Once power has been consolidated, we will turn the people against the muggles and muggleborns so that they themselves will ask us to annihilate them."

A few people smiled and nodded appreciatively. However, a curly-haired witch seated next to Narcissa was smiling the most as she regarded her husband proudly. Sitting on the sofa across from Hermione, Bellatrix bit her bottom lip and glared.

"Right now the people expect us to murder and torture left and right; they think we will rule with an iron fist – which we will but they don't need to know – and if they see that these things don't happen, if they find kindness where they expected hostility, they will be all the more grateful, and thus, loyal," Voldemort finished. Just then a house elf appeared holding a silver platter with glasses filled with bubbling champagne. Everyone present took one except for the mudblood, Bellatrix noticed, who waved the house elf off while placing a hand on her swollen stomach. No one knew why the Dark Lord had taken Hermione Granger as his wife. Some said that it was to aggravate the Order and use her against Potter after which she would be disposed of. However, barely a month after the wedding, her pregnancy had been announced and so that explanation was discarded. Now all the Death Eaters could do was wonder and get on their new mistress' good side. Bellatrix was not one of these Death Eaters. She hated the curly-haired bitch and had no qualms about letting her know.

"Bellatrix."

Rodolphus' hand squeezed his wife's who turned her furious eyes from the Dark Lady to her weary husband.

"What?" she hissed.

"Stop glaring at the lady in the Dark Lord's presence," he replied, turning to look at Bellatrix who pulled her hand out of his and rolled her eyes back onto the mudblood who was now chatting animatedly with Narcissa. Bellatrix huffed and looked away; she made a mental note to reprimand her sister later. How dare Narcissa act friendly towards the mudblood fully knowing what her sister had lost to her. Bellatrix averted her eyes from the center table she had been staring at pensively and planted them instead on the flower of her desire, her lord. Bellatrix had always thought of him as a rose, what with his beautifully chiseled face (he had gotten rid of the snake face right after the battle had been won), his lush black hair and long-lashed brown eyes, he was angelically beautiful. However, underneath the breathtaking, perfumed petals lay rows of thorns ready to milk their victim of as much blood and pain as was possible. "There is a fine line between fear and worship," he had told her as they'd surveyed the Death Eaters choosing their prisoners. He had looked down at her with a small smile, his feared snake face transformed into his worship-worthy human visage. She had been confused when he had told her this; however, Bellatrix hadn't wanted him to think her daft; so she had smiled knowingly and looked back at the corpses being moved from the battlefield. From the corner of her eye, Bellatrix had seen the amused smirk on his face, and her heart had sank. How stupid had she been to think she could hoodwink his genius? Now, however, Bella smiled a tight-lipped smile as the train of realization hit her: her lord, with his handsome face, was worthy of being placed up on a pedestal to be worshipped as people of beauty often are. However, because he is Dark Lord, the element of fear comes in, and how could people's blood not freeze in their veins when they realize that this monster has an angel's appearance? It is easy to confront an evil that is as evil is portrayed: ugly, insane, and unrefined, but what happens if evil is beautiful, intelligent and sophisticated? Like a person drawn to a rose, they know it is dangerous and are fearful of its prominent thorns, but the colors are so vivid and shining; the petals like burgundy strips of velvet so soft and perfect opening up invitingly . . . ouch! A fat drop of blood wells up on the freshly made cut, and the person scolds themselves for their foolishness, and the rose smiles and opens up its petals more, ready to find the next victim to fall for such a skilled temptress. . . .

"Bellatrix, there must be a lot on your mind if you have been quiet this whole time. Care to share?" her rose uttered, head propped on his fist.

Bellatrix smiled. "I was just thinking about our victory, my lord."

Voldemort gave a brief nod and looked away; she knew he knew it was a lie, and so she made small talk with her husband while throwing glances at her lord who was conversing with Lucius and Dolohov. Suddenly, his eyes met hers, and she heard his voice in her head.

When I leave, come to the foyer.

She smiled knowingly and turned back to Rodolphus, her heart swelling with excitement and apprehension. She was ready to be the next victim for such a skilled temptress . . . her rose, her lord.