Archer's Edge
1 November 1975
"Bella..."
Voldemort clutched her waist and pumped his hips steadily against hers. This felt good. So good. He was completely drenched in sweat by now, reeking of sex and exertion, but he didn't care.
"Bella..."
His voice was a hoarse groan; he'd gotten thirsty an hour ago and had never got round to drinking anything. He'd been too busy shoving his cock into Bellatrix in every single way imaginable. He'd needed to do that after they'd come home to see Sirius Black's school trunk in the foyer of Archer's Edge. Inside had been the Invisibility Cloak, looking like a ragged old velvet blanket. Bellatrix had put it around her shoulders and it had looked like her head was floating. Then Voldemort had realised that he had all three of the Deathly Hallows, and he'd completely lost himself to his elated lust.
"Bella!" He snarled and came again, for what was at least the sixth time. He'd lost count. He fought for his breath through the blinding, pinching bliss, and when he looked down at Bellatrix's face, he realised she had her fists dug into her eye sockets. She was crying - sobbing, actually. Her chest heaved and salty tracks down her cheeks revealed that she'd been crying for some time. Voldemort's cock went immediately soft inside of her, and when he let himself slip from her body, the massive slick of seed that followed told him he'd taken things too far.
"Bella." This time he said her name gently, carefully. He reached for her hands, but she winced and whimpered and rolled away from him. Feeling suddenly confused, Voldemort tried to think back over the last few hours. They'd come back from the Halloween ball, both of them a little tipsy, and they'd discovered the Cloak. Voldemort had carried Bellatrix up the winding staircase, and she'd put the cloak on the windowsill beside the bed. Then he'd torn her clothing from her. He'd literally torn it. He frowned as he stared at the ruined gown on the floor, the beautiful creation she'd had made special for the ball. He shut his eyes and felt sick, because flashes of what had happened came rocketing back into his consciousness.
He could hear her telling him it was too much, too fast, that she was dry, that she was sore. He'd ignored her every time. He could feel the way her biceps had been so tiny and fragile beneath his hands as he'd pinned her to the bed. He could taste the sweaty skin on her neck as he'd attacked her with his lips and his tongue and his teeth. And then an image came into his mind from Bellatrix's, and he almost got sick as he staggered away from the bed.
"My Lord, please... not there; that's not natural."
"It's what I want, Bellatrix, and you of all people should know that I get what I want. Lubrico." Voldemort had stretched her open with his fingers, testing the one hole he'd never plundered on her body. She'd shrieked and sobbed into the pillow when he'd pushed in, but it had been so tight, so warm and perfect, and she hadn't made any more noise of protest.
"No." Voldemort stumbled back against the wardrobe and found himself covering his limp manhood with his hands. From the bed, Bellatrix glared at him, tears still worming their way down her cheeks. Voldemort shook his head, feeling his eyes sear, and he stammered, "I didn't... I would never..."
"It's happened before - you getting all riled up after some great conquest," Bellatrix whispered, "but never for so long, and never to the point where I really thought your mind had gone somewhere else entirely."
"Bellatrix..." Voldemort shut his eyes, trying to rid himself of the awful sound of her pleading with him. He heard her mumble from the bed,
"I could have fought you. Could have Stupefied you or something, but... I didn't want to ruin it for you."
"Ruin it for me," he repeated, staring at her and letting his mouth fall open. She shrugged and said helplessly,
"You finally have everything. Everything you've ever wanted. You have your Horcruxes. You have all of wizarding Britain. You have the Deathly Hallows."
"But apparently I am still thoroughly lacking in control of myself," Voldemort noted. "That seems a bit dangerous, doesn't it? A bit undesirable. And, anyway, I have the Hallows and what of it? Nothing's changed."
He watched as Bellatrix pushed her curls from her sweat-slicked face. She swiped at her nose and eyes and mumbled,
"May I have my wand, please? I'm... everything hurts."
"Oh, Bella." Voldemort walked over to the bedside table and picked up her wand, holding it out to her and keeping his distance. He heard her mumble various healing and reparative spells, and his stomach churned. Now he remembered everything - the way she'd spluttered and choked as he'd forced his cock too deeply down her throat. The way she'd squirmed and whined in pain as he'd put too much weight against her. That unbearable scream into the pillow when he'd violated a place where she hadn't wanted him to go.
"You're wrong," he whispered, and when Bellatrix scowled up at him, he shook his head and told her, "You said I have everything because I have power and immortality, but... you are everything, Bellatrix. Don't you know that? Don't you understand that I would flatten mountains, destroy cities, and kill millions of people for you? Don't you know that I would burn that cloak, smash up the stone, and snap the wand for you? You have to understand, Bellatrix, that without you I am empty and broken, but with you I am... I am... whole. And I... please. Please, Bella."
He didn't even know what he was asking her for. Perhaps he wanted to know that she comprehended her significance to him. Perhaps he wanted forgiveness. Bellatrix stared at the blanket that she'd pulled up modestly around her body, and she mused,
"I'll look seventeen for as long as I live. You use a book to help stave off destruction from splitting your soul so many times. You're the Master of Death, for whatever that's worth. And your magic is so immense that sometimes it consumes you entirely. It'll never be enough; you have everything you've ever wanted and you're still hungry. What sort of beasts have we become, My Lord?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. He glanced down and noticed that he was still naked, and for some reason that felt terribly inappropriate just now. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of flannel black pants, and he mumbled,
"If you'd like, I'll go stay at Malfoy Manor for a while."
"What?"
He turned round to see her fidgeting with her wand and shaking her head with confusion. He scoffed quietly and told her,
"I reckon most wizards who'd done what I did to you would have earned themselves some isolation. Or a good solid Cruciatus Curse, at least."
"I'm not going to torture you, My Lord," Bellatrix informed him, but in her head, he could see visions of her using the Bloody Eye Hex on him the same way she'd done to Tarquin Avery.
"What I did was much worse than what Tarquin Avery did," Voldemort noted, handing her a nightgown. She wordlessly pulled it on, and he quietly aimed a few repairing charms at her gown before sending it to hang in the wardrobe.
"Will you Obliviate me, please?" Bellatrix asked. Voldemort squared his jaw and shook his head.
"I don't like the idea of tampering with your memory for any reason," he said. "And, anyway, I'd still know what I did. I need to... I should go put it in the book, probably."
He hung his head, feeling very guilty all of a sudden. It wasn't a feeling to which he was accustomed. The wickedness he'd recorded in the book from Croatia was, almost without exception, a list of deeds about which he felt no compunction. Only the sins against Bellatrix had come with any sense of grief or sorrow. He could sense then that Bellatrix was remembering it, the way he'd fucked her mouth until she had nearly vomited, the way he'd invaded her while she screamed.
"Stop. Please," Voldemort whispered, and Bellatrix sent her Occlumency defences up at once. Voldemort frowned and dragged his fingers over his cropped hair. "That isn't what I mean."
He took a shaking breath and watched as Bellatrix silently tucked herself beneath the blankets. She curled into a ball and started to cry again, and Voldemort eyed the Invisibility Cloak where it sat on the windowsill. He had half a mind to Vanish it or to light it on fire, but instead he just walked out of the bedroom. He'd lie all night in the guest room, staring at the ceiling and feeling like an irredeemable cur. But there was no helping that. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom doorway and said quietly over his shoulder,
"I do hope someday you might find it in you to forgive me, Bella. I really am quite sorry. I won't ever let such a thing happen again; I'll find a way to stay in control of myself."
She said nothing, so he just shut the door gently behind him.
Archer's Edge
1 November 1975
Bellatrix studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She'd pulled her hair back into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck, and she'd pulled on a black wool dress that was dour enough for a funeral. There were dark purple bags beneath her eyes, and even darker bruises all over her neck and collarbone. The sleeves of her dress hid the fingerprint-shaped marks from where he'd held her too tightly. She'd used every healing spell she knew, but she was still tender between her legs and even more so in her backside. Bellatrix glanced down at her onyx-and-diamond ring, touching it gently and reminding herself that she was bound to Voldemort for all eternity. He was her lord and master. She needed to move beyond this. Quickly.
But when she started to walk from the bathroom, the pain between her legs was so bad that her eyes burned. She'd dreamed the night before, during the brief sleep she'd managed, that Voldemort had been lying in a pool of his own blood with Bellatrix looming above him, hate in her eyes. She still wasn't sure if Voldemort had shared the dream, or whose mind had cooked it up. It didn't matter, probably.
She pattered down the winding stairs, knowing he'd be in his office by now. She was surprised, upon entering the wood-lined office, to see him fly up from his chair and bow to her. Bellatrix froze, a little confused. He kept his head bowed and murmured gently,
"Good morning, My Lady."
It felt stilted and distant and unequal in the wrong direction, so she dipped into a low curtsy and let her layered wool skirts billow around her. She saw him eye her, and she held the gesture for a long moment.
"My Lord."
She rose, and his glittering eyes met hers as she approached his desk. He aimed his wand at the doorway and muttered,
"Accio Butterfly Weed Balm."
A moment later, a little jar came soaring into the office from the potions stores, and Voldemort stepped around his desk as he caught the jar. Bellatrix folded her hands before her and tipped her chin up a little as he unscrewed the jar of balm. He sniffed lightly, silently dipping two fingers into the balm and bringing them to Bellatrix's neck. He rubbed carefully, his eyes locked on Bellatrix as he whispered,
"I am very sorry, little thing."
"It's nothing," Bellatrix insisted, but his eyes flashed behind his glasses, and as he rubbed more balm onto the marks he'd left, he said,
"It was horrid. I was horrid. And you are everything to me, Bellatrix. I wish I had a name for you to... I only wish you had something to call me that didn't make you sound like a servant."
Now it was Bellatrix's turn to frown, and as he smeared even more balm onto her skin, she noted,
"But I am your servant, My Lord. The most loyal of your servants, I should I like to hope."
"You're my wife." He scooped out one last glob of balm and dragged his fingers carefully from her shoulder to her ear. Bellatrix shivered and met his eyes as he screwed the lid back onto the jar. He shook his head and mused, "You can call me whatever you like, Bella, but you know very well that I haven't been your master for years."
Bellatrix's lips parted and she tried to speak, but she found she had nothing to say. She shrugged as Voldemort set the jar of Butterfly Weed Balm down on the desk behind him, and she said softly,
"All that matters is how deeply I love you. To the marrow of my bones, I love you. With every scrap of my being, I love you."
She watched his throat bob, and he took her cheeks in his hands as he tipped his head and noted,
"So very many reasons why it could have only ever been you."
He lowered his face to hers, moving tentatively as though he thought she might slap him. But she didn't; she let him kiss her, and after a moment it felt like all the terrible sensations from the night before had dissolved into the air. She found herself holding the front of his robes, kissing him back and knowing that no single offence could ever tear apart the threads of how they were bound together. They were knotted beyond untangling, the two of them, and as Bellatrix felt the marks on her neck heal up, she found she did not mind at all.
He would always need to kill, to conquer. He would always need battles to fight and wars to win. There would never be enough people murmuring My Lord to him and averting their eyes in fear. But there had been no malice toward her even last night from him. He adored her; he'd said so many years before and she knew it was still true. So she kissed him back.
Archer's Edge
5 November 1975
Bellatrix snorted a little laugh as she stood at the sink in the bathroom cleaning her teeth. Voldemort frowned and glanced self-consciously down at his bare chest and pyjama trousers.
"What is it?"
She spat the foam out and rinsed her mouth, swiping the back of her hand over her lips as she set down her toothbrush. She smirked and insisted,
"It's nothing."
Voldemort scowled and stepped up behind her. The instant he saw his reflection in the mirror, he couldn't help but laugh a little himself. His hair had grown out a bit, and it was sticking up in every direction. His beard had gone a bit rogue, too, looking wiry and wild.
"Oh, all right. Fine. I do look rather like a bear, don't I?"
He threaded his arms around Bellatrix, and she rubbed at his forearm as they stared at one another in the mirror. She looked a little dreamy then as she informed him,
"Well, if you're a bear, you're my bear, and I don't mind that."
"No?" Voldemort found himself pulling up the hem of her short black nightgown, and Bellatrix tipped her head back against his chest. His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, and her breath hitched as he asked her, "You don't mind having a bear for a husband?"
"I don't mind," she whispered. She hummed contentedly when his fingertips found her womanhood. Voldemort felt his cock go hard in his pyjamas as he began rubbing her, but he ignored the erection. Bellatrix didn't; she ground back against him as he fingered her. He couldn't help but tighten his other hand around her waist and rub against her back. They hadn't been deeply intimate since the night of Halloween ball, since the terrible night when he'd been so awful to her.
Now Bellatrix moaned and leaned forward, gripping the sides of the sink and swirling her hips against his hand and his cock. When at last her walls clenched around his fingers, the mental link was entirely too much to endure, and her pleasure leeched straight into Voldemort's consciousness. He felt himself spill his seed in his trousers, the sticky fluid getting all over the flannel of his pyjamas. He couldn't care; all he could do was kiss Bellatrix between her shoulder blades and mumble that he needed a shower.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd washed himself and cleaned his teeth. He'd combed his hair and trimmed his beard, and as he stepped out into the bedroom to see Bellatrix looking slick and professional, he held his arms out and declared,
"No more bear."
Bellatrix turned up half her mouth and told him, "No... now you'll always be my bear. At least in my mind."
"All right, then." He started to get dressed, and suddenly he found himself rather liking the idea of her having a nickname for him the way he did for her. She was his little thing. She had been for years. Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if she called him her bear, so long as it stayed entirely private. Ever since he'd inadvertently violated her body, he'd winced every time she'd called him 'My Lord.' In a group, it was perfectly fine. When they were alone, it felt unpleasantly uneven.
"Ready?" He straightened his tie and held his arm out to her. They had a meeting at Malfoy Manor in just a few minutes. Hadley Carrow had written the day before asking for an audience, and he'd granted it, for he thought he knew what the issue at hand was. Bellatrix took his arm, and together they Disapparated, coming to in the main corridor of Malfoy Manor. Voldemort didn't release Bellatrix's arm. He kept walking with her, their hands eventually sliding together and their fingers linking. It felt good to touch her, and so he didn't let go until they reached the dining-room.
As soon as they walked through the doorway, thin Headmistress Carrow and a greasy black-haired boy flew to their feet. Voldemort frowned a little as he found his chair, and he said,
"Sit. Severus Snape. I was not expecting you." He gave Carrow a rather significant look, but Snape said in a smooth drone,
"My Lord, I apologise for my last-minute and rather unannounced attendance. Headmistress Carrow thought perhaps it would be best for me to be here myself to tell you what I'd heard. I will, of course, leave if you find my presence inappropriate."
Beside Voldemort, Bellatrix rolled her eyes a little, seeming annoyed by the boy's overeager, sycophantic speech. Voldemort asked simply,
"What is it that you heard, Severus?"
Snape cleared his throat gently, and Hadley Carrow eyed him with tight lips. Snape finally said,
"I walked into Herbology lessons, My Lord, which Slytherin has together with Gryffindor. I was standing behind Sirius Black and his good friend, Remus Lupin. Black was muttering something that was making Lupin look quite concerned, so I used a nonverbal Amplification Charm to eavesdrop. It turns out that Black was telling Lupin that he means to join the scattered rebels in Ireland after the Christmas holidays."
Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow and glanced over to Bellatrix. She sat up a bit straighter and demanded,
"What did Lupin say to that?"
"He called Sirius Black a fool, My Lady, and warned him not to do anything so dangerous or illegal."
"Hmm." Bellatrix looked sceptical, but Voldemort could tell the boy was conveying the truth. He turned his gaze to Hadley Carrow and said sharply,
"I want Sirius Black delivered here to the Manor by this evening. Have Dolohov and Avery collect him and put him in the dungeons."
"Yes, Master." Carrow bowed her head, and Voldemort said to Snape,
"Continue to prove your loyalty to me, Severus, and in a few years' time, there may be a place for you among my Death Eaters. Both of you are dismissed."
They both rose and dipped and murmured platitudes, and Voldemort waited until they'd gone before he warded up the dining-room doors and sent a muffling hex out into the corridors. He glanced at Bellatrix and shrugged.
"Well?"
"Well," she repeated, pursing her lips, "I think that if you torture or execute him outright, it might cause a stir. My aunt and uncle know he's a problem, but he hasn't done anything quite as brazen as Andromeda did. If I were in charge, which I admittedly am not, I'd sentence him indefinitely to Azkaban for insidious speech, and I'd have them administer the Dementor's Kiss upon intake."
Voldemort couldn't help but smirk a little. He'd been thinking almost the exact same thing. He nodded and said,
"Right. We'll have that seen to as soon as possible, then." He drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around the room, and Bellatrix said quietly,
"It's not enough for you, is it?"
Voldemort frowned. "What do you mean?"
She gave him a meaningful look and said, "Dealing with a back-talking little boy who may or may not run off to join individual rebels in Ireland. You need a full-on war. You always will."
He opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't find a way to argue with her. She was right, of course. Things had become almost too easy. He didn't administer the day-to-day happenings at the Ministry, and he didn't want to do so. The most he ever saw these days in the way of battle were the overhead strikes on identified rebels in Ireland. And Bellatrix was right. It wasn't enough.
"You know," he said quietly, drawing a circle on the wooden table with his finger, "I might like to cement my people's loyalty even further by deposing the Mudblood heading up the French government."
Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "You'd make Canada rather cross. And... Belgium, probably. Spain? I'm not sure who would care enough to get involved."
Voldemort smiled a little and suggested, "A small war might be a bit of fun."
Bellatrix rolled her eyes and insisted, "You know as well as I do that it wouldn't be a small war. But it would probably be rather fun. I know you're more a general than a king, anyway."
"So..." Voldemort sighed and studied her face. "War with France. To depose the Mudblood."
Bellatrix's eyes glinted, and she nodded as she reminded him, "I became your servant, fell in love with you, and married you during times of back-to-back battles. It was exciting, then, wasn't it? Life."
"Yes." Voldemort's heart thumped a little as he imagined storming the French Ministry with dozens of Death Eaters, with Bellatrix at his side. He felt a little dizzy then, his lust for conflict thrumming through him. "We'll have to surreptitiously build up a good force. Conduct lots of training. Keep it quiet for a while."
Bellatrix nodded. "You just tell me what I need to do, and I will gladly do it."
She liked the way his face had been illuminated by the idea of war. He could sense that from her. He rose from his chair, and she immediately followed suit. He walked the three steps to her and seized her face in his hands, kissing her hard and remembering just how beautiful she'd always looked in full-fledged battle.
"War with France, then, bear," she whispered when he pulled away, and he smirked as he nodded and said,
"My little thing in battle, her face lit up by the jade green light from her wand. Yes, Bella. War with France."