Author's Note: Accompanies Chapter 13, "Exam," of my Bellamort fic Her Cruel and Angry Bones.

Bellatrix looked like she was trying not to roll her eyes. She was immensely frustrated, Voldemort knew. Well, so was he. The last nineteen days had been absolute hell. He'd finally sworn off watching her dance. He couldn't take it after awhile - seeing her writhe and move, often with a wand clutched in her hand, wearing just her leotard and rehearsal skirt. He couldn't keep himself from pinning her to the wall and kissing her, tasting sweat on her neck. A few times, she'd touched his cock until he'd come all over the floor between them. More than once, he'd used his fingers over the material of her leotard to rub at her until she was panting and coming, her back arched and her arms threaded around him. How he'd managed to keep himself from just carrying her up into his bedroom and claiming her, he didn't quite know. He always felt like he was seconds away from breaking, like the slightest provocation would do him in.

He'd been working with her a week earlier earlier on duelling stances, on incorporating her dance moves into combat, and he'd been adjusting her arm position. Keep your secondary arm over your head for stability, he'd told her, and he'd physically adjusted her. When she'd whirled round in a move, he'd caught her in a kiss, and it had lasted for so long that they'd both lost their breath and her wand had clattered to the floor. He'd had a sudden, vibrant image in his mind of her against the wall, her legs around him, the crotch of her leotard yanked aside.

He hadn't watched her dance since then.

She moved like no one else moved. She kicked her leg up and didn't let it go, somehow keeping it in a perfect line with the other leg, unnaturally contorted en pointe. She tipped her torso and aimed her wand at the mirror, and then she lowered her leg, smoothly, elegantly, keeping her wand aimed all the while. She swept her leg down and around quickly, and then she began moving across the ballet studio in perfectly elegant little hops - one foot pointed out, then landing toe first, repeated over and over. She began to spin, punching her foot down and whirling her arm around for balance. She spotted the mirror, some of her curls coming loose, and she whispered a phantom spell as she slashed her wand through the air.

She wasn't finished. She rolled down onto the ground, arched her back up, aimed her wand backward, then kept her wand pointed at the mirror as she rolled onto her stomach. She pushed herself up onto one leg, then the other, then up onto her toes. Then she bent into an arabesque - farther and farther until her foot was high above her head. Still she trained her wand on her enemy, and then the crackling music on the record player ran out, and the record spun in ghostly silence. Voldemort moved to the player and pulled off the needle, unable to do anything about the way her battle dancing had inflicted a rather insistent erection upon him. He cleared his throat softly and told Bellatrix,

"You will kill people with ballet. Don't know that that's ever been said before."

She smirked at him as she padded over to where he stood. She fingered her wand carefully and shrugged. "I want to get better about knowing what spells to use when."

"Well. That will all come," he promised her, and a pit formed in his stomach as he said, "once you're of age. Once you can use my wand for dueling. I'll teach you how to use spells strategically. I promise."

She smiled up at him and nodded, and she whispered, "I want to be ferocious. People have used all sorts of words to speak of me. I'd like them to use ferocious."

He laughed a little and said, "I think they will."

She set her wand down then and admitted, "I feel energised, Master. Like someone's lit a fire beneath me. Will you help me?"

"Bella." He shook his head a little and said, "I think I should go."

"Please." Her voice cracked just a little as he started to walk away, and when he turned back toward her, she blew a sweaty tendril of hair away from her forehead. He studied her, examining the way she had just the little beginnings of womanhood about her. She had small swells of breasts, smooth and soft and inviting but clearly nowhere near as developed as a woman ten years her senior would possess. Her waist was narrow and hardly curved and all into her slim hips. Her arms and thighs were lean and girlish. He should find no attraction in her, he thought. And, indeed, he suspected that he would be far more attracted to her in ten years, and perhaps even more attracted to her in twenty years. But right now, it was not a mere carnal magnetism that made him crave her. It was the battle dancing, the inherent cruelty, the personality, the carriage. It was her that he wanted, not her youth. As it happened, her extreme youth was rather an inconvenient variable in all this. He approached her, putting his hands on her shoulders and murmuring,

"Only a few weeks, Bellatrix."

"Please just let me touch you." Her cheeks went pink then, and it was not from the exertion of dancing. His lips fell open, for he was still hard from watching her. He nodded, unable to help himself, and shut his eyes as her fingers worked, trembling like mad, to get beneath his outer robe. He finally helped her, for she was struggling, and he assisted her in unbuttoning his trousers. When he pulled his cock out for her, he shivered, because her thumb dragged across his tip, and it felt entirely too good.

"Bellatrix… oh. Lubrico. Bloody hell."

She'd pushed his trousers down a bit, and she'd seized his right hand in hers and had guided his fingers to the outside of her leotard. He shouldn't do this, he knew. He'd only begun this in the law ten days or so, when he'd felt guilty for taking all the pleasure. He started dragging the pads of his fingers around the outside of her leotard's crotch, pushing hard the way she'd liked the last time. He used his forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger to push and drag, and he tried to play with her clit using his thumb. It was distant, and indirect, but she liked it. She must have liked it, or she wouldn't have tipped her head back against the wall with scarlet cheeks, gasping for air.

Voldemort bent to press his lips to her neck, afraid to nip and bite at her, afraid to scar up her delicate flesh and mark up her milky skin. He licked deeply, though, and she liked that, too. She must have liked it, or she wouldn't have moaned like she did. Her hand faltered on his cock for just a moment, and she squirmed a bit as she whispered,

"This feels blissful. I… I don't want it to stop."

"Well," he informed her with a bite of a laugh, "I've got bad news for you, I'm afraid. You keep touching me and it's going to last another thirty seconds."

She smiled then, her cheeks darkening further. She deepened the pressure of her hand on his cock, which felt so good that his head spun. He distantly wondered what it would feel like to be inside of her. He wasn't allowed to be inside of her right now. She was still sixteen. But as he stared at her face, his fingers moving on her soaked leotard, her hand pumping on his cock, he wondered. Would she be snug and warm around him? Would she moan when he thrust himself within her? Would she come for him, around his cock? Would she -

"Fuck." He shut his eyes and bent, tipping his head against hers and feeling everything tighten up. His pleasure was coiling inside him; he was about to snap. He kissed her hard, his fingers and thumb going slow and deep on her now, and she whimpered frantically into his mouth. She was coming. She was clenching; he could distantly feel it. He could feel her body tense against the wall, could feel her hand shaking on his cock, and he spilled himself all over the abdomen of her leotard. She didn't seem to mind. She didn't seem repulsed by his come landing all over her clothed belly. His pleasure was white-hot in his ringing ears for a moment, searing in his veins, and then he yanked his mouth from hers and whispered,

"Bellatrix…"

"Master." She used her left hand, her clean hand, to cradle his face, and for a long moment they both just stood there, sweaty and covered in his filth, panting, recovering.

As he used his wand to siphon up the mess he'd spilled upon her and Scour both their bodies, he tried to remind himself that she was still forbidden, that he was a complete coward and weakling for letting himself take what was taboo for good reason. But then he more firmly reminded himself that he was Lord Voldemort, and that he could have whatever he wanted, and that if he wanted to kiss and touch the beautifully cruel Bellatrix Black just before her birthday, he could and would do so.

"Bella," he said, buttoning up his trousers and straightening his robes, "Get yourself into normal clothes and come down for dinner. I'm starved."

She smiled a little and nodded. "Yes, Master."

"Right. If you are going to stand like that, that's fine. In fact, I don't suppose most people in a duel could stand like that. The only thing is, you need to account for your target moving," Voldemort was saying, moving around Bellatrix. She was standing with one leg bent in a plié, the other up in a partial arabesque behind her. "Often, I think, you train your wand on your imaginary target as if they're stationary. You have to remember that your opponent will be moving as much as you. Lower that second foot. Keep it pointed if it'll help you push off, but be ready to pivot."

"Yes, Master." Bellatrix did as he said. Her arms looked off. She had her wand aimed forward, which was good, but he narrowed his eyes and stood behind her, making a physical adjustment to her left arm, raising it up. "Keep your secondary arm over your head for stability."

She curled it like a ballerina, looking far more like a dancer than a fighter, but he knew she'd throw curses better than anyone else. He nodded and told her,

"Good. Now follow your enemy. He's running from the right side of the mirror. Follow. Going fast, fast… follow."

She spotted her wand, kicking her left leg up and twirling partially, landing again and steadying her wand. Once more she twirled, but she didn't realise how closely Voldemort had been standing behind her. She got caught up in his arms, and he laughed a little as he nodded. He wrapped her up into an embrace that felt far more intimate than anything that had come before, and he murmured,

"Good. Good. Your targets will be moving. You have to move with them, not just move for the sake of… moving."

"Yes, Master." She swallowed hard and stared up at him, her left hand reaching for his face. He lowered his face to hers, unable to keep from kissing her, and she yelped in surprise. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and her eyes fluttered shut with surprise. He dragged his tongue over the roof of her mouth, needing to drink her in, and Bellatrix hummed with delight. She let her tongue dance with his, let her mouth bravely search his. He heard the clatter of her wand dropping to the wooden floor, and then both of her hands were on his jaws. He started to push her to the wall, glancing down and seeing that she had no tights on today.

No tights. He could just shove aside her leotard and fuck her. He could claim her, right now. Right here, in this dance studio. He could have her. He could just pull out his cock and hold her up against the wall and bury himself inside of her. Easy. It would be so easy. It would take a minute and a half, and then it would be over and done. No more torment. No more waiting. His. She would be his. He could see it, clear as day in his mind. He could see and feel his fingers prying her leotard away. He could see and feel his cock shoving into her, could hear her voice crying out in the agony of virginity lost. He could feel her coming, unable to help herself.

"Master…" She was panting now, her cheeks the colour of roses in June, her lips wet and swollen as he pulled back from her. He glanced back to where she'd dropped her wand, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and he mumbled,

"I can't watch you dance anymore. Not until… not until your birthday."

"Wh-What?" She sounded frightened, but he gave no explanation. He owed no explanations. He just strode briskly from the studio, his cock and head aching, his chest pulling, his stomach twisting, his boots clacking, and his mind whirling.