Archer's Edge, Lake District
22 December, 1973
Perhaps, Voldemort thought distantly, Bellatrix thought there was a small chance she'd come home to find that the Surripiotempus Potion Voldemort had taken had made him a handsome thirty-year-old again. Or perhaps she thought she'd come home to find that his symptoms had abated and that he was resting comfortably. She probably was not expecting to find him the way he was now, crouched over a toilet like a drunkard, heaving his guts up.
Every time he vomited, his stomach clenched and he retched violently. He'd long since reached bile, which burned and seared his throat like he was throwing up acromantula venom. His hands were wrapped tightly around the porcelain bowl, and his breath shook like mad as he tried to stop the bathroom spinning.
"My Lord?"
Her voice sounded like it was coming from the far side of a tunnel, like it was disembodied from her very being. He said nothing, blinking slowly and hoping for some reason that she wouldn't step on his glasses. He'd taken them off because of how violently he was retching, and they were on the floor beside him. He was sick again then, more acidic fluid searing through his throat and looking disgustingly green in the toilet bowl.
He felt humiliated, like a filthy child, and he suddenly remembered a time at the orphanage when young Tom Riddle had come down with a bad stomach virus. The illness had affected him much more severely than the Muggle orphans, probably because the physiology of wizards was so different. He'd spent days vomiting, which had apparently been a severe aggravation to the Muggle wenches who ran the orphanage.
"My Lord," said Bellatrix's voice again. She had crouched down beside him, which baffled Voldemort a bit. One of her hands pressed between his shoulder blades and rubbed gently, and with her left hand, she used a cool washcloth to wipe carefully at his lips and chin. He shut his eyes, trying to just accept what she was doing as he thought toward her,
I've tried the Surrpiotempus Potion. Anti-nausea and anti-emetic potions and spells. Nothing worked. The headache's as bad as ever. I apologise for being more than a little revolting.
"You are not revolting," Bellatrix murmured. Voldemort was sick again, but this time all that happened was that his stomach twisted and yanked horribly and he gagged and spluttered.
"Nothing left," he managed to cough out, and Bellatrix sighed from beside him. She had the cool cloth on the back of his neck and her lips pressed to his cheekbone for a moment, and she whispered,
"Let me help you to bed. Please. I'll Conjure you a bucket."
Somehow she managed to help him. She flushed the toilet and cast a few Scouring charms upon his mouth, and she carefully put his glasses on the ledge above the sink. She must have Levitated him, at least partially, because he found himself on his feet with her helping him stagger back out into the bedroom. He was dizzy and weak as he sat on the edge of the bed, and his chest ached as Bellatrix knelt down to pull off his dress shoes.
"Bella," he said, his voice hoarse and tired. He swallowed, and it hurt like hell to do so. Bellatrix seemed to pick up on how thirsty he was, and she quickly Conjured a simple glass and filled with an Aguamenti spell. She passed him the water, and he used a shaking hand to bring it to his mouth. He sipped slowly as Bellatrix peeled his socks from his feet, and he finally said down to her,
"I feel like an utter fool just now. I'm sorry."
Bellatrix shook her head, but when she looked up to him, he could see that she was crying. "I'm horrifically worried for you," she admitted. "I want you to feel well. Tell me how to help you."
"If only I knew," Voldemort sighed. He stared down into the glass of water as Bellatrix stood and started pulling off her black velvet dress. She kicked off her own high heels and started changing into a nightgown. He saw then that there was a metal bucket beside the bed, and he wondered when she'd managed to Conjure it. He set the water down on the bedside table and pressed his fingers tightly against his forehead. "Perhaps… perhaps just a great lot of good rest. Do you suppose you could go fetch me a bottle of Dreamless Sleep?"
"Of course, My Lord," Bellatrix said obediently. She padded barefoot across the bedroom, looking terribly concerned as she glanced over her shoulder. Whilst she was gone, Voldemort peeled off his clothes until he was down to his black underwear. His wand trembled as he carefully Banished the clothes to the wardrobe, and as he pulled himself between the bed sheets, he tried desperately not to be sick again. He shut his eyes and nearly fell asleep, wondering if he was doomed to an eternity of physical hell.
"My Lord," he heard Bellatrix's voice say gently, and he cracked his eyes to see her standing beside him, uncorking a bottle of purple fluid. She used a glass dropper in her other hand to dose him, counting out three droppers' full and then stopping the bottle back up again. She set the potion down and asked him, "Is there anything else I can do to make you comfortable? Can I try healing you again?"
"Let's just sleep," Voldemort suggested, feeling profoundly tired. He shut his eyes and insisted, "I believe that a solid night's sleep will mend it all up."
He didn't believe that, of course, but it was a nice thought. He could feel Bellatrix climbing into the bed beside him, and he felt compelled to murmur,
"Thank you."
"I'm your wife," she reminded him. "You've cared for me through worse. But… may I ask you something, My Lord?"
"Mmm-hmm."
Bellatrix hesitated for a moment, but she finally asked, "Why did you make so many of them?"
Horcruxes, she meant. Why had he made so many Horcruxes without doing better research on what the effects of such magic would be. Voldemort's eyes burned behind his lids, and he admitted softly,
"I don't know. I suppose I felt safer each time I made a new one. That was folly… obviously."
He'd thought of destroying every Horcrux but one and then killing himself so he could use the last one. He'd contemplated that perhaps such an action might eradicate all of this physical nonsense. But he knew, of course, that that was an absurd notion.
"I would like your permission to go to Croatia on my own," he heard Bellatrix say, and he was too drowsy to snap at her. He turned his head and forced his eyes open, and he whispered,
"I'll figure it out, Bella."
"With all due respect, My Lord, I can not sit by and simply wait this out," Bellatrix insisted. "Please. Please give me permission to go to Croatia after Christmas. I shall be more careful than you can imagine. I'll take my journal. I'll stay in constant contact."
"What if you don't find an answer there?" Voldemort asked. Then, pushing her even harder, he demanded, "What if there is no answer?"
"I refuse to accept that idea," Bellatrix said firmly. Her face went hard as stone, and she said quietly, "You are the most powerful wizard who has ever lived, and I am your Lady, and I will not watch you be eaten alive by your own magic. Please let me go to Croatia."
He felt a strong need to cry then, which was more humiliating than even the vomiting. Somehow he managed to just nod once and whisper,
"Fine. Go to Dubrovnik, Bellatrix, and see if the crone has anything to tell you. Don't think I live in ignorance of the fact that I would not be in this castle, ruling this country, if it were not for you. So, yes. Fine. Go to Croatia."
Fresh tears spilled from Bellatrix's eyes, and she nodded firmly as she thought at him,
Thank you. I need you. I love you.
And I love you, little thing. His eyes fluttered shut as the Dreamless Sleep started to wholly overwhelm him. In the last moment before he surrendered his consciousness, Voldemort found himself thinking at Bellatrix, I need you more than you'll ever comprehend. Goodnight.
Archer's Edge, Lake District
25 December 1973
"It's snowing." Bellatrix pressed a hand to the paned glass window and smiled a little out onto the grey moor. "I've never actually seen snow on Christmas."
"Nor I," admitted Voldemort from behind her. "Frigid rain, many times. Never snow. It is a bit beautiful, isn't it?"
Bellatrix nodded, glancing to the magnificent tree they'd decorated together two days before. She listened as the Wizarding Wireless crackled out traditional carols. Then she heard Voldemort say a bit firmly,
"You don't have to go."
"I think I do," Bellatrix whispered. She would be leaving tomorrow for Paris by Portkey, and she'd stay overnight at a boutique Muggle hotel, in cognito. She'd give her mind and body time to rest from such a far Portkey journey before continuing on with another to Dubrovnik in Croatia. There, she would find the witch they called simply Nadia.
Now, as Bellatrix stood staring at her lord and husband, she felt an awful pit of dread in her stomach. He looked, quite frankly, as though he were dying. His skin was terribly pale and looked paper-thin. His eyes were sunken and dull behind his spectacles. His hands trembled and never quite stopped. He looked much older than he'd ever looked; in the past few days, it seemed like he'd added another fifteen years to his life. Bellatrix had tried pouring her love into him for hours at a time, but it was to no avail. Every hour had seemed to steal more of his being. Bellatrix wanted to leave right this minute, but he'd insisted she not go to Paris until sunrise. She wasn't sure she could obey him and stay in Paris for any demonstrable time resting. And, after all, he'd trained her to disobey him. Now seemed like the time to use that skill.
"If you'll fetch it," he said quietly, gesturing with a shaking hand toward the Christmas tree, "I've a small gift for you under there."
Usually he would have been able to wandlessly Summon the gift himself, but Bellatrix said nothing as she walked to the tree. She bent and picked up her own gift for him, a large box wrapped carefully in black paper and silver ribbon. His was a simple black cube with a small card on its lid. His script was the same as always, if a little shakier, and it read Happy Christmas, Little Thing.
Bellatrix sighed and carried the gifts over to where Voldemort sat. She handed him her gift and asked,
"Shall I open it for you?"
"I'm not that broken, Bella," he insisted quietly, but there was no malice or defensiveness in his tone. She sank into the chair opposite and watched as he tore slowly at the black wrapping. She quickly Vanished the paper as he opened the box and pulled out the new, heavy winter cloak that was waiting inside. It was black waffle-weave, made of a blend of silk and wool and charmed to be waterproof. It was lined with four layers of black flannel, and the clasps at the neck and chest were in the shape of Dark Marks. Voldemort dusted his fingers over the cloak and sounded very honest as he said,
"It's absolutely magnificent. Where on Earth did you get this made?"
"I made it, My Lord," Bellatrix said. When he raised his tired eyes in surprise, she flashed him a shy little smile and nodded. "I learnt some new weaving and stitching spells. I even made the clasps myself, though I did have to buy the metal."
"Bellatrix," he breathed. He heaved himself slowly from his chair, standing on shaking legs and wrapping the cloak around himself. His trembling fingers struggled for a moment with the clasps, but she let him do it himself. He adjusted the high collar around his neck and pushed his hands out of the slits at the sides.
"Good. I got the length right," Bellatrix nodded. She'd estimated his height, knowing well how far above her he stood after five years of loving him. Voldemort dragged his fingers over his bald head and nodded gratefully.
"Thank you." He sat down again and smirked a little as he said, "I'm keeping it on for right now. It's quite cosy."
Bellatrix laughed and held up her own gift. "May I open it?"
He nodded, and she pulled the lid from the box. Inside was a simple ring that looked like someone had taken a hammer to black stone until it vaguely resembled a circle. Bellatrix couldn't help but frown as she pulled it out, and Voldemort cleared his throat as he said,
"Put it on your right hand and Conjure yourself a mirror."
She obeyed him, slipping the right onto her right fourth finger. Oddly, it felt quite comfortable once it was on, despite how rough it was in appearance. She Conjured a small mirror and stared at her reflection, gasping and touching her fingertips to her face.
Her skin was darker - no longer milky white, but a solidly tan shade. Her hair was auburn and straight and fell right to her shoulders. Her eyes were the same - those were never easily Transfigured, she knew. But her nose was longer and more narrow. There were little gaps between her teeth, and her lips were thinner. Her chin was more pointed. There was a dusting of freckles along her cheeks and nose. Bellatrix looked up at Voldemort and demanded,
"You made this?"
"Seems to be the year for homemade gifts," he joked, his face serious. "When you put the ring on, that disguise takes you over. When you take it off... well, why don't you see?"
She pulled the ring off and held the mirror up again, finding that she'd gone right back to her old self. She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes burning as she informed him, not for the first time,
"You are the most powerful wizard who's ever lived."
"I'm far more impressed by the cloak you made than by the ring, but... I appreciate your enthusiasm, Bella." Voldemort turned up half his mouth, and Bellatrix rose from her chair. He stood again, still seeming quite shaky as he approached her and took her face in his hands. He stared at her through his glasses, his voice abruptly steady and firm as he said,
"You stay safe, you understand me? I won't lose you for this. I just won't."
"Why would you lose me?" Bellatrix demanded, and his fingers tightened.
"Don't agree to anything without consulting me. I know you, Bellatrix Black. If that crone Nadia tells you you could save my body by giving up your own life, you'd do it."
Bellatrix's mouth fell open and she tried to argue, but of course he was right. He tipped his head and, as if to make his point, he instructed her,
"You are not to agree to anything that puts you in danger, and that is a direct order from Lord Voldemort. Do you understand me, Madam Black?"
"I understand," she nodded, shaking where she stood as she studied his pale, drawn face. He bent to touch his lips to hers, and she tried desperately not to cry as she whispered, "Happy Christmas, My Lord."
"Bella." He kissed her more deeply then, though she could feel it took effort for him to wrap his arms around her. She let him just pull her against his body, and she breathed him in as she tucked her face against the cloak she'd made for him.
Dubrovnik, Croatia
27 December 1973
The islet of Lokrum was six hundred metres from the city of Dubrovnik, but in many senses, it seemed a world away. From what Bellatrix had already discovered, Dubrovnik was a city of plaster and stone, perched along the rugged, walled cliffs overlooking a perfectly sapphire sea.
Lokrum, she could see from the deck of the ferry, was verdant and lush, almost as though it had been plucked from the South Pacific and tossed down here alongside the city. This, Voldemort had told Bellatrix, was where Nadia lived. There was an old Muggle monastery on the islet that had been badly damaged in an earthquake in the 17th century. A hundred years later it had been 'deserted,' and Nadia had apparently been living there in secret ever since.
Once she was on the islet, which had been designated by the Muggles as a nature preserve, Bellatrix found herself surrounded by cacti, palms, agave, and other myriad plants that hadn't been evident in the city of Dubrovnik. If the witch Nadia was interested in potion-making, Bellatrix reckoned, this would be a fine place to find ingredients. She was quite certain there was far more on this islet than the Muggles realised.
The islet was small, but Bellatrix, disguised as the tan, auburn-haired alter ego her ring gave her, had to be stealthy in sneaking away from the group that paraded off the ferry. They were nearly all headed to the Botanical Gardens - Muggle tourists from all over Europe. Bellatrix wound her way through the forested paths toward the centre of the tiny island. There were rumours, apparently, that the Muggle government intended on restoring the abandoned monastery. Bellatrix figured that a witch like Nadia, based on her reputation, would somehow keep her home.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps she would simply move on if the Muggles came for the place. After all, Nadia had scooped the monastery up from Muggle-imposed irrelevance. Surely she could do that somewhere else if she so desired.
Bellatrix stared at the ruined complex, marveling at the lovely colonnade that wended about a cloister. The bell tower was broken; it had probably come tumbling down during the earthquake hundreds of years earlier. Bellatrix stepped closer to the monastery, her boots crunching on the detritus of the forest. As she approached, she felt a Magical shield vibrate around her, but it admitted her. Surely it was something to repel Muggles, or to sense the presence of an invader. Bellatrix sighed nervously and carried on, making her way toward the cloister.
Suddenly she saw a tiny woman make her way out of a room with no door. She wouldn't have reached Bellatrix's shoulder if they'd stood side by side, Bellatrix reckoned. She had a red kerchief tied over her wispy white hair, and she wore simple, rough-hewn brown robes. She held up her hand and beckoned silently, and then she disappeared back into the room from whence she'd come.
Bellatrix glanced around, feeling for some reason like she was being watched or followed. She swore she could hear whispers around her, but she tried to ignore the sensations of unease as she walked across the courtyard that had long since gone wild with weeds and cacti. She stepped around a huge chunk of carved marble on the ground, which seemed to have fallen from the monastery's building long before, judging by how moss had grown all over it. Then she stepped beneath the cloister and into the room where the crone had gone.
It was a space illuminated by stained glass windows that seemed strangely intact compared to the rest of the building. The frescoes on the walls, too, were beautifully vibrant. In the middle of the room was a simple wooden table and two even simpler chairs. The crone sat down in one and said in heavily accented English,
"You may sit and remove your ring, Madam Black."
Bellatrix felt a jolt in her chest, and as she pulled off the charmed ring and tucked it away, she demanded in the calmest voice she could manage,
"How do you know who I am?"
"I saw you in his mind long before he ever thought of you," Nadia said simply. Bellatrix was confused; she could feel no press of Legilimency in her own head, and she had her Occlumency shields up tightly.
"I don't need Legilimency, my dear," Nadia said with a knowing smile. "Not after this long. So. He has achieved all his wildest ambitions, no?"
Bellatrix knitted her fingers in her lap and said simply, "He is the uncontested ruler of wizarding Britain. He is very loved by his people, even more so by his wife."
"The wife from whom he stole an organ to patch up the fact that he had helped her steal fertility?" Nadia looked almost amused, and she shook her head as she said, "Tom Riddle has always been very intelligent. But wise? There is a difference. It was not wise to make so many Horcruxes. I told him so years ago, but of course it was too late. It still is."
"No." Bellatrix shook her head violently and said, "There must be something. Something. I can't watch him... I can't lose him. Please help me."
Nadia looked thoughtful for such a long while that Bellatrix wondered if the witch would ever speak again. But then she aimed her knobby wand at the wall and murmured something Bellatrix didn't understand. A moment later, Bellatrix gasped in alarm as a large, thick book came soaring in through the doorway of the room. Nadia put the book down in front of her, and Bellatrix gaped at its ancient-looking, hand-painted cover.
"How did Mr Riddle get the Elder Wand?" Nadia asked suddenly, and Bellatrix's mouth fell open.
"The what?"
"The Elder Wand," Nadia said patiently. Bellatrix frowned.
"You mean like from the story? About the three brothers? There's no such thing; it's just a myth."
Nadia tipped her head and smirked a little. "Yes. Of course you are right. Albus Dumbledore probably thought the same thing. Now. On to this book."
Bellatrix was shaken, but she fought through it to pay attention. Nadia grazed her claw-like fingers over the cover of the book and said in a newly solemn voice,
"I have been keeping this book since it was given to me two hundred years ago. I never had the right person to give it to. Perhaps now is the time."
"What does it do?" Bellatrix asked, feeling her head spin with nerves. Nadia dragged her fingers over the weathered spine of the book and said,
"It is, in a sense, an extraordinarily powerful diary."
"My husband has some experience with powerful diaries," Bellatrix pointed out, but Nadia shook her head.
"Not like this one. Tom Riddle must write every wicked thing he has ever done into this book. The book will absorb the evil, and his decay will be siphoned away from his body and soul."
"Wicked things," Bellatrix repeated. "You mean like killing."
Nadia smirked. "Like killing. And other wicked things."
"And what if he doesn't think anything he's done is wrong?" Bellatrix asked nervously.
"That is where his wife comes in," Nadia said warmly. "I feel great Darkness radiating from you like heat from the Sun, Madam Black, but you have scruples yet that your husband lost before the day he was born. You must walk with him through his life, from his very earliest memories. Through every year, every instance in which his actions were really and truly wicked. And then he must write it all down in the book. It will take time. It will take patience. And he will need to atone in the book for future evils, too. But if the both of you are vigilant, his degradation may be halted and reversed."
Bellatrix stared at the book, feeling a roil of emotion as she raised her eyes to Nadia's ancient gaze.
"Thank you," she whispered, and Nadia slid the book across the table.
"Alone, his own ego would strap reins onto him. With you, Bellatrix, and with your aid... the world is his and his alone."
Bellatrix took the book and bundled it up in her arms, nodding and feeling fresh tears boil over as she said again,
"Thank you."
"Go," Nadia nodded. "Your necklace will get you all the way home, you know."
Bellatrix froze, touching her fingers to her necklace and blinking as she protested, "It's impossible to Apparate that far."
"Not with his magic," Nadia said with a knowing smile. "Go. Start at his very beginnings. With the orphan boy, the one called Benjamin."
Bellatrix nodded and whispered her thanks again. Then she held fast to the book, shut her eyes, thought of Archer's Edge, and Disapparated.
When she came to, she found herself staring down at a seated, shocked-looking Lord Voldemort.
"Bella?" He seemed as though he couldn't believe she'd already come home. Bellatrix grinned and held out the book to him, boing her head respectfully.
"I have the answer, My Lord."
