For all her resolve, Bellatrix found herself struggling to make it past the threshold. The vast chamber within was lit by only a handful of torches, most of these concentrated at the end of the room where a large, high-backed chair was positioned on a dais. Twenty men in black robes flanked the platform, but the most striking figure was that of the man in the chair, the eerie sheen of pale flesh beneath his black robes and the unmistakable red glow where eyes should have been rooting her to the spot and leaving her gasping for breath.
Forcing her feet to move, Bellatrix crossed into the torchlight and subjected herself to the force of the reclining man's stare. All around her male voices murmured with displeasure, and though she could not see their faces, she felt sure that each one was looking down at her with the same, smug grin.
Silence threatened to suffocate her and the weight of her chin against her chest as she knelt before the dais in submission was almost too much to bear. That the Dark Lord could punish, even kill, her for her insolence was foremost on her mind, but it occurred to her in that moment that it would be better to die at the hands of this greatest of wizards than to live a life of mediocrity, and the thought sustained her.
"Bellatrix Black." The cold, high voice of the Dark Lord as it spoke her name sent waves of simultaneous fear and pleasure flooding over Bellatrix's prostrate form. Each syllable came alive in the speaking, and she dared to hope that the smallest hint of interest intoned in that voice was meant as an encouragement.
"Your time at Hogwarts has served you well," the Dark Lord observed, and Bellatrix could feel the searing heat of his gaze as it sought to meet hers. "Top of your class, unless I am mistaken? Perfect scores on your NEWTS. A knack for transfiguration." A pause, and in the silence Bellatrix was sure that the very essence of her being was being laid bare for the Master's perusal.
"A real asset to the house of Salazar Slytherin," he concluded at length, and in the elation that followed Bellatrix found her voice.
"My Lord is too kind," she rasped, her own voice small and muted by the thick walls, swallowed up by the high, cavernous ceiling. Instantly ashamed, she raised her eyes to meet the approval or rebuke that must lie in the Dark Lord's face and was suddenly held transfixed by the power of his stare.
"You do not come here lightly, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord murmured, his mouth tilting into a one-sided smile as the handsome, young face drained of color. "What would you have of me? The Dark Lord is listening."
Wetting her lips, Bellatrix forced herself to stand. All around her the oppressive presence of the Dark Lord's male followers was evident.
"My Lord knows that I am given over to his cause," she began, bracing herself for what was to come. "He knows my intentions, and now that I have come of age, He must know that I desire nothing more than to pledge myself to Him in allegiance."
A bemused grunt to her right drew her gaze, and through the shadow cast by his hood Bellatrix could make out the pocked face of Walden Macnair leering at her with unbridled mirth. Outnumbered, Bellatrix forced her hand to remain at her side, but as she turned back to the dais her dark eyes slid over the familiar features of Rodolphus Lestrange, unnaturally handsome even in this wan dungeon.
The tense moment in which their eyes met was not lost on Voldemort. The moment her gaze returned to his, the cold glint of malice that brooded in her wilfull stare melted and he was almost given over to laughter at the look of total vulnerability he commanded.
"The Dark Lord welcomes to his side all those of pure blood who are willing," he said. "But has your husband given you his blessing? Is it upon his request that you are here tonight?"
On all sides the jeering laughs of the Death Eaters echoed in the stunned witch's ears, and the glint of teeth bared in malicious grins shone from out of the darkness. Bellatrix staggered as though she had been physically struck, and before she could give them a second thought, the words poured from her lips without remorse: "Not my husband yet, my Lord."
"But very soon to be. I understand that your engagement has been quite finalized."
"I need no man's permission," Bellatrix spat, her mind reeling as this unexpected reminder of the arrangement between the Blacks and the Lestranges hit her with all the force of a battering ram. As the implication of her words dawned on her, she scrambled to make amends and found herself on her knees once more, half-prostrate at the feet of the great throne.
"My husband and I will serve you faithfully to the end of days, my lord. You will have no more devoted followers than we two, united in our devotion to achieving your ends."
Voldemort raised a pale hand and at once he held the attention of the entire room. Standing, he stared down at the ridiculously recumbent woman and, in a gesture that drew shocked exclamations of horror from his Death Eaters, knelt in front of her and lowered his face so close to hers that he could make out each separate strand of ebon hair.
"You know the oath," he whispered.
