February 1913
Vienna, Austria
"When will we go home, do you think?" Bellatrix asked, bringing her small glass of apple juice to her lips. She stared across the little café to where a pianist played lilting, pleasant music.
"Soon," Voldemort told her in a low voice. "I've already made several powerful observations whose lessons I wish to take back with me. I'm still debating whether we'll even stay until Saturday."
Bellatrix set down her juice and frowned at him. "You don't want to meet Grindelwald himself, My Lord?"
He rapped his knuckles gently on the tablecloth and murmured, "I don't think it's wise. He was reputed to be a Seer, and if he's a Legilimens, it may be difficult for us both to block absolutely everything. It would seem to me as though protecting the future as we know it is of paramount importance."
Bellatrix would have been lying then if she'd said she wasn't a bit disappointed. Of course, it wasn't as though she'd ever be able to go about telling people she'd met Grindelwald, but… still.
"I mean to meet him in our own time," Voldemort said suddenly, and Bellatrix snapped her face to him. He shrugged, the sunlight pouring through the glass window beside him and washing over his face. He sipped from his cup of coffee and then said, "If I don't want to change the endpoint of our known timeline, I should go from there. Ask him where things went wrong. There's always more to learn."
"You mean to go to Nurmengard, My Lord?" Bellatrix breathed, and he nodded. He looked down at his coffee, stirring it slowly with a tiny spoon. He sniffed and said, "It's not as though I'll be going alone, though I'm sure I'd handle things just fine. In any case, I shall have a rather powerful and exceedingly loyal lieutenant with me."
Bellatrix felt her eyes burn. She swallowed hard and told him, "I'll always go wherever you need me to be."
"I know." He set down his coffee as the pianist started up a new song. He was silent for a moment, and Bellatrix studied his stern face that seemed to be carved from stone. The din in the café was enough that she felt confident saying quietly,
"I look forward to going back to a time where you are as widely respected and feared as you ought to be."
"But we weren't there yet, were we?" He dragged his teeth over his lip, still looking at his coffee. "We'll get there soon enough. I won't stop until I have everything, Bella."
"I know you won't, My Lord." She felt a strong stirring in her chest, a swell of love for him in every imaginable way. She knew she sounded cloying then as she poked at her relish and salad and added, "I will contribute, in whatever minuscule way I can, to helping you get all you deserve."
"Oh, Bella." His voice was a little husky then. Bellatrix felt him curl his hand around her left arm, and she watched as he pulled their hands to the space between their chairs. She gasped a little as he pushed down her elbow length glove, edging it down to her wrist with a push of his fingers. Their arms were hidden from everyone else in the restaurant by the tablecloth, but Bellatrix felt fully exposed when his fingertips drifted over her Dark Mark.
She struggled not to moan aloud as he traced the outline of the Mark. His thumb pressed against the skull, and his middle finger dragged around the serpent. He may as well have been fingering her between her legs, Bellatrix thought. She was just as dizzy as if he'd been doing that. She'd gone just as wet; her pulse raced just as quickly. She shut her eyes and swallowed hard, trying to focus on the piano music. She wondered how exactly it was that this phenomenon had come to be. She remembered other times that his hand had touched her here, but it had never felt quite as powerful as in these last few days. It was almost as if some additional connection had been forged, another layer on top of the master/servant symbiosis the Mark itself established.
"My Lord…" Her voice shook between her teeth as his thumb ran up and down her forearm. When she forced her eyes open and looked at him, she was alarmed. His dark eyes glittered and his lips were parted. His gaze was locked on her, examining her face and her chest and then moving down to her arm. Bellatrix groaned softly, grateful for the others' conversations and for the piano. She squirmed where she sat, for a very insistent throb had blossomed between her thighs. She panted, wishing she hadn't been wearing a corset. She needed to gasp, to take a full breath against the feel of this.
"Can you feel me?" she heard him ask, and she nodded frantically. But then his thumb pressed more deliberately against her, and he specified, "Can you feel me, Bella?"
"Oh." She nodded again, turning her eyes to him as everything started to knot and tense inside of her. "Yes, My Lord. I feel you. I do."
And she did, truly. It was like his magic was flowing through her veins with her blood now, as if his touch had unveiled a part of him she'd never seen or experienced before. This all felt dangerous and vulnerable, but also pleasurable beyond belief. Suddenly Bellatrix snatched the edge of the table, gripping it tightly in both her hands. Everything had gone so warm, so tense, and she was right on the verge of -
"Go ahead, Bella," he breathed, sounding a bit unhinged. She wrenched her eyes shut and came right there, her womanhood clenching and her ears ringing. A general sense of wellbeing smacked her like an ocean wave breaking. She must look a sight, she thought distantly. The Muggles in the hotel's café probably thought something was medically wrong with her, for she was hunched over a little. She breathed in desperate, shallow puffs and only partially suppressed the moan of satisfaction that escaped her lips. When it was all over, she opened her eyes to find the Dark Lord staring at her like she was a steak and he was a starving man.
"Go up to the suite," he said in a tight voice that left no room for debate. "Go. Now."
Bellatrix felt confused fear come over her. She wasn't sure if he was banishing her because of his anger or because of his own arousal. But she did as she'd always done; she obeyed him. She rose on shaking legs, adjusting her glove back up to her elbow. She gave him a little curtsy and murmured, "My Lord."
Then she left, still lost in the surreal way his mere touch had taken her to paradise.
She was like whiskey to a drunk, like opium to an addict. She was poison and medicine all at once, and as Voldemort quickly ascended the stairs to their suite, he reckoned that he probably didn't even have it in him to kill her even if he'd wanted to do so. He couldn't care. She was all he had here, and when they went back to their own time, she would help him encounter Grindelwald at Nurmengard.
Without these unexplained trips to the past, he never would have become her lover. And, really, that was what he felt like now. He was still her master. She was still his servant. But she looked at him and spoke to him in a way that would have earned anyone else a Cruciatus Curse at minimum. Day by day, her fawning deference was giving way to a strangely mutual accord. Voldemort wanted to hate that. He wanted to punish her for it. But he'd already tried giving her to Rodolphus Lestrange, and he'd been unable to do so. He wanted her. He needed her. And so she was like a drug, one he wasn't willing or able to give up.
His fingers shook wildly as he tried to put his key into the suite's door. He'd waited ten minutes after Bellatrix had left, trying to gather himself and to let his erection fade enough to walk in public. She'd driven him to the edge with the way she'd climaxed from the mere touch of his fingers on her Mark. It wasn't just her breathing or her flushed cheeks that had done him in. It had been the way his touch on his Mark had facilitated such a reaction in her. It had been the way he'd felt his magic flowing into her and hers back into him. It had been a sensation unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and Lord Voldemort considered himself to be quite the connoisseur of magical experiences.
"Damn it all," he muttered, shoving his key back into his pocket and whipping out his wand. "Alohomora."
The weak Muggle lock clicked open at once, and Voldemort pushed the door open. He slammed it behind him and barked,
"Bellatrix!"
She appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, her thick hair brought over one shoulder in a braid. She'd taken her clothes off and had put on a simple black wrap robe, probably because she hadn't known what was expected of her when her lord and master came upstairs. She'd thought correctly, Voldemort thought, in ridding herself of her cumbersome corset and the endless layers of cloth this era demanded of women.
Suddenly his hands were yanking at the tie on her robe and shoving it away, and her fingers were flying down the placket of his trousers. She took him out carefully and began to stroke, but Lord Voldemort's body had no time for foreplay. He didn't even have time to take her all the way into the bedroom. Instead, he hauled her by her waist and slammed her roughly against the parlour wall, her head crashing against the blue damask wallpaper. He muttered a halfhearted apology, but she just wrapped her arms around his shoulders and braced her knees around his hips.
He entered her with ease, for she was still wet for him. He kissed her madly, knowing he tasted of coffee and food and not caring. She tasted sweet, like the apple juice she'd been drinking. She tasted like Bellatrix. Her fingers toyed with the back of his suit coat as he pumped himself into her, and her thighs squeezed around him. It lasted only a moment, for Voldemort had whipped himself into a frenzy down in the café. He was finishing inside of her before he knew it, groaning against her neck and nearly dropping her right onto the floor.
"We're going home," he mumbled finally, using his weight to pin her against the wall as he slipped out of her. "I've learnt enough. We're going home."
"As you wish, My Lord," Bellatrix answered breathlessly. He pulled his face back to study hers. He tucked a curl behind her ear and shook his head.
"You still can't marry Rodolphus Lestrange," he ordered her, and she smiled warmly.
"As you wish, Tom."
February 1913
Vienna, Austria
"There is, perhaps, something I ought to tell you before I begin casting the spells."
"There is?" Bellatrix looked up from the gold Galleon she'd been staring at. It was their object of choice for the Gnavigo Charms that would carry them back to their time. Bellatrix frowned curiously as Voldemort took a long, shaking breath.
"Ever since I was a boy, I have adored nothing so much as killing," he said, and that hadn't been at all what Bellatrix had been expecting him to say. He continued, "The sensation of causing pain, of snuffing out life, has always been far more pleasurable than even the most powerful climax. But over the past months, something else has crept into my consciousness and very nearly replaced all the gore as the source of my happiness."
Bellatrix blinked. Surely he didn't mean her.
"Of course I mean you, you silly girl," he sneered in frustration. He threw his hands up, apparently quite irritated, and said, "Never mind it; I'll explain some other time. Let's go."
He seemed more on edge than he'd been in quite some time, and Bellatrix didn't think it wise to push or question him now. She stood silently beside him as he touched the tip of his wand to the Galleon and murmured,
"Adlocum Blaize Bailey. Adlocum domus meus. Adannis tertiadecima die mensis Februarii. Adannis anno millesimo, nongenti septuaginta tres."
He took a deep, steadying breath before repeating the ancient, powerful spells again. He repeated them a third time, as if doing so for good measure, and then the little coin buzzed and vibrated on the writing-desk. Bellatrix checked that her Extended bag was secure across her chest, and she reached for Voldemort's hand. He turned his face to her, his expression grave, and he said matter-of-factly,
"If I'd never moved through time, Bella, I wouldn't be doing this."
"Doing what?" she wondered softly, and he answered by kissing her. He used his right hand to cup her jaw, and the length of his wand pressed against Bellatrix's cheek. His lips met hers and his breath was warm on her skin. It was a brief and superficial kiss, but Bellatrix drank it in just the same.
"That," he said finally. "I wouldn't be doing that."
She stared up at him, unable to keep herself from reaching up and stroking at his face. He was right; she wouldn't have dared do this to him before their unexpected sojourn to Paris. If nothing else at all came from their voyaging, this had happened. They had happened.
"I'll still be living with you in Blaize Bailey," she reminded him. "And we'll make plans to go to Nurmengard."
His eyes flashed, and he nodded firmly. Then he squeezed Bellatrix's hand so tightly it hurt, and he reached without further pretense for the Galleon on the table. Everything went hot and white, then freezing cold, and wind whipped Bellatrix's wild curls. When she finally crashed back to life, she'd been hurtled against the old iron stove in the kitchen at Blaize Bailey. She gasped and it hurt, for her ribs had been crushed against the device, and as she pulled herself away with a throbbing, spinning head, she knew at least one of her ribs was broken.
February 1973
Blaize Bailey
"Ferula… Episkey… better?" Voldemort dragged the tip of his wand around Bellatrix's torso, and she nodded gratefully as the ribs she'd crushed put themselves to rights. He stepped away from her to snatch the copy of the Daily Prophet off the table. The thirteenth of February. Yes. They had returned to precisely the time they'd left. He smiled a little to himself and held up the newspaper as he turned to face Bellatrix.
"Worked like a charm," he joked. Then, more seriously, he noted, "No one else will know we'd gone."
Bellatrix pulled a rather odd face. "It is strange, isn't it?" she asked, "Having to pretend like none of it's happened?"
Suddenly Voldemort found himself feeling the same anxiety he often felt when he thought too hard about Bellatrix. He sniffed lightly, straightened his back, and said in a stiff voice to Bellatrix,
"I do not want you labouring under any silly delusion, Bellatrix, that I am in love with you."
Her wide eyes blinked a few times and her mouth fell open. She shook her head, sending her curls flying, and she insisted, "That isn't at all what I meant, My Lord; I do apologise if I -"
"If I were an intelligent man, I'd shove you onto your knees and fuck your mouth until you gagged and cried," Voldemort spat, his words sending splotches of embarrassed scarlet over Bellatrix's face and neck. She seemed shocked by his sudden change in demeanour, and she stammered,
"If… if that is… if that would make you happy, My Lord, then -"
"Be silent," he hissed, his heart thudding inside his chest as he studied her face. Something terrifying had happened between the two of them in all those trips to the past, and it was only getting worse in the present. He snatched her face in his hands, holding her so roughly that she whimpered in pain. He snarled down at her, "Go on. Do it. Call me by the name you did in Vienna."
She hesitated, her eyes welling as terror washed over her face. She was right to be afraid, Voldemort thought. She had gotten entirely too comfortable. He shook her face and commanded her again,
"Say the name, Bellatrix!"
She opened her mouth, her breath shaking as a tear wormed its way from her eye. Finally she whispered in a cracked voice, "Tom…"
He stepped back so that he could swing his arm harder, and then he backhanded her with all the physical force he could muster. She careened toward the counter, stumbling and falling to her knees from the strike. Voldemort's stomach twisted, and for the first time in a great many years, he thought he might be sick. He gripped the edge of the counter so hard that his knuckles hurt. He watched as Bellatrix swiped a trembling hand over what appeared to be a profusely bleeding lip. Voldemort shut his eyes and turned away.
"I have work to do in this time," he said quietly. "I have no time or space for the maudlin nonsense you've cooked up in my life. I have power to attain. People to kill. Do you comprehend that, you… you insufferable little succubus?"
She didn't answer him, so he turned his face to her and prepared to scold her again. But she'd pulled herself up to stand, and she said through the bloody, swollen mess he'd of her mouth,
"I understand, My Lord. The very last thing I want to be is in your way. I beg you to command me however you see fit, even if that means -"
"Stop." He whispered the word so softly that she didn't hear him, and she kept talking.
"... going away entirely, because all I long for is the success you deserve, My Lord, and I -"
"Stop!" Voldemort slammed his fist on the countertop, breathing in the way it hurt to do so. Bellatrix stared at him, wide eyed and vaguely defiant. She wanted to give him everything he wanted, but she refused to be afraid. He pulled his wand out, ignoring the way it quivered in the air. He brushed his wand over Bellatrix's mouth and murmured, "Tergeo. Claude Vulnus. Contra Inflammatio."
The blood was siphoned from her wound, and the split in her lip was sealed up. The swelling went down, and soon enough her mouth was back to normal. Voldemort licked his bottom lip, trying to draw up the words to tell her she was an obstacle on his path to power. He tried to tell her she should just go marry Rodolphus Lestrange, that she was just meat in the war grinder. But he couldn't force himself to say any of those things, so instead he said,
"I apologise for striking you."
The corners of Bellatrix's lips curled up, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She shook her head. "You'll never have anything to apologise for, My Lord."
"N-no. That was… inappropriate." Voldemort wasn't quite sure why he felt that way, and Bellatrix looked just as confused. They both knew that he'd never hesitate to torture or kill anyone else, that he relished causing pain and suffering and death. But he'd felt sick after hitting Bellatrix, and in any case, the act of doing so had hardly erased her hold on him. He reached for her left forearm and brushed his thumb over her Dark Mark. She shivered a little and shut her eyes.
"This didn't used to happen," Voldemort noted, pressing his thumb more firmly so she knew what he was talking about. He hadn't created the Marks to have this deep of a connection, and before they'd started time traveling, Bellatrix's Mark hadn't possessed this strength, either. Something had happened. Something existed between them that hadn't existed before. And Voldemort knew then that he was a fool if he tried to fight it anymore.
"I can't love you," he said honestly, and Bellatrix opened her eyes. She shrugged and said in a blank, honest voice,
"I would never expect such a thing."
He squared his jaw and brought her forearm up to his lips. He kissed her Dark Mark and she moaned softly. Then he moved his lips to hers, kissing her as gently as he could manage. One of his hands planted itself at the small of her back, and he pulled her flush against him. She was aching for him to deepen the kiss; he could feel the want radiating from her. But he pulled his lips away and touched his forehead to hers.
"No one else will understand why I have to go Nurmengard. It'll only be you and I who know, who understand. Can I count on you, Bella?"
"My Lord," she breathed, her hands hesitantly resting on his shoulders, "You will always be able to count on me. I will be fighting for you until the day I die, and that is a promise I could never break."
Voldemort shut his eyes, feeling an unfamiliar burn in them that he found most unpleasant. He kissed Bellatrix again, unable now to temper the depth of the kiss. He drew her bottom lip between his tip, and his tongue danced with hers. She tasted sweet. She was loyal and powerful and beautiful and his.
"Say it," he whispered desperately against her lips. She'd know what he meant. He wanted to hear her say the name only she was permitted to speak.
"Tom…" The syllable was smooth as silk and heavy in the air, and he groaned as he kissed her again. His hands went to her back, to the row of buttons that bound her into her dress. Soon enough, there would be meetings with his other Death Eaters. Soon there would be planning to get them to Nurmengard. But for right now there was Bellatrix and nothing else. He was lost in her, drowning in her, and somehow Voldemort couldn't care. He'd tried time and time again to rid himself of what she was to him. It had never worked. He vowed to himself in that moment to stop trying, to stop pushing.
He could never love her. She knew that. He knew it in the marrow of his bones. But it didn't matter. She wasn't a weakness, no matter how he tried to convince himself that she was. She was all he had when it came to Grindelwald. She was the only one who set fire to his veins. There was no one else. Only Bellatrix.
1 March 1973
Malfoy Manor
"CRUCIO!"
Bellatrix paused in the corridor at the sound of her master's bellowing voice. She slowly peered around the threshold of the library where he stood shouting. A blinding crimson web of light was wrapped around a witch on the floor. She writhed and shrieked in pain as Voldemort stood above her, his wand pointed downward. When his gaze flicked to Bellatrix, he released the Cruciatus Curse and smirked.
"Bella," he said with feigned pleasantness. "Do come in. I want to introduce you to our new friend."
Bellatrix stepped silently into the library. She'd actually come to Malfoy Manor to comfort her sister Narcissa, who had recently sustained an early miscarriage. But when she'd heard the Dark Lord shouting, she'd come, her feet guided by curiosity. Now she stood staring at a sobbing heap of a witch on the ground.
"Bella, this is Nadine Davies," said Voldemort calmly. He pushed the witch with his foot a little and barked, "Say hello, Nadine."
The witch on the ground was silent for a moment, but then she finally raised her swollen eyes to Bellatrix and mumbled, "Hello."
"Until very recently, Miss Davies worked for the Daily Prophet," Voldemort told Bellatrix, "but my friends there have informed me that Miss Davies communicates regularly with Albus Dumbledore and publishes his propaganda. Tell me, Bellatrix. Do I like when people publish against me in the Prophet?"
"No, My Lord," Bellatrix smiled. "You don't."
"Let's send that old rag a message, shall we?" Voldemort suggested. "Diffindo. Secaro."
His magic severed her hands at the wrists, and they landed with a rather grotesque thunk on the ground. The bleeding cauterised at once. Nadine Davies screamed in pain and horror, trying in vain to pick up her severed hands with the stumps that remained. Voldemort was calm as ever as he pressed the tip of his wand to his own Dark Mark, obviously summoning someone. Then he aimed his wand at Nadine Davies' head, twisted it smoothly, and murmured, "Obliviate."
Davies' swollen eyes went blank for a moment, and all Bellatrix could do was watch, utterly transfixed by the deeds of her master. Beside her, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange appeared, both huffing as if they'd rushed to get arrive. Rodolphus gave Bellatrix a rather strange look, halfway between confusion and sadness, as his brother Rabastan said,
"My Lord. How may we serve you?
"Get this wench out of my sight," Voldemort said, brushing his fingers along the length of his wand. "Deliver her to the office of the Daily Prophet tonight. Tie her a post if you have to; make certain they find her. She won't know who she is, or what the Daily Prophet is, but her colleagues will recognise her. They may even notice she's missing a few body parts. Evanesco."
He pointed his wand at the severed hands on the floor, and they Vanished into nonbeing at once. Rodolphus and Rabastan levitated Nadine Davies, who was sobbing quietly with disoriented horror. The Lestrange brothers bowed deeply to Lord Voldemort before taking the witch out of the room. Then Bellatrix was left alone with Voldemort, and he flicked his wand to shut and lock the door.
"I was not expecting you here today," he said simply. Bellatrix sighed lightly and told him,
"Narcissa was pregnant… eight weeks along, My Lord."
"Was," he repeated. He ghosted his fingers along a bookshelf on the wall and acted disinterested. "She lost the pregnancy?"
"She did," Bellatrix said uncomfortably. "The Healer told me it's far more common than we often realise."
"A pity, still." Voldemort drew arcs and circles in the air with his wand and cast a few nonverbal spells to clean up any trace of Nadine Davies' presence in the room. The air felt more fresh; it smelled vaguely of spring. Voldemort tucked his wand away and said to Bellatrix, "The loss of a pureblood child is a loss to us all. Give her my condolences."
Bellatrix chewed her lip then, trying to imagine herself speaking to Narcissa on behalf of the Dark Lord himself. He seemed to realise the same odd tone about it all as Bellatrix did. He quirked up half his mouth and said,
"I'll speak to Lucius myself about it. Nevermind. Now… I have news for you. Sit."
He gestured to the wingback before the fireplace. It was pleasant outside, so no fire was lit, and the room was bright and airy from the light streaming through the windows. Bellatrix sat in the brown leather chair, warmed from the sun, and folded her hands in her lap. She suspected she knew what this was about, and, sure enough, the Dark Lord said,
"I have secured a contact at Nurmengard."
"So there are people working there?" Bellatrix affirmed. "It isn't just Dementors, like at Azkaban?"
"No Dementors." Voldemort pursed his lips and leaned back against the mantle, crossing his arms over his chest. "A corps of internationally-recruited Aurors who live near the castle and patrol. Oh… and Inferi. Grindelwald created them in his prime, and they've been turned against him as both a deterrent to invaders and as a mechanism of keeping Grindelwald from escape."
"Inferi," Bellatrix breathed. Se blinked and shook her head. "Reanimated corpses?"
"They're more useful than you might think." Voldemort tipped his head. "In any case… You know I have Boris Mulciber planted in the Auror office. He got his hands on a list of British Aurors currently stationed at Nurmengard. I got in touch only yesterday with one, Peter Emmerick. Here."
He pulled a folded parchment from his robes and held it out to Bellatrix. She noticed the broken black wax seal as she opened the paper.
To the Dark Lord, it read,
My childhood friend Boris Mulciber has informed me of your interest in visiting us here at Nurmengard. Whilst visitors are not allowed, strictly speaking, I do think it possible to make an exception in this case. What I ask in return is to be reassigned in Britain and to be permitted to join your ranks. Please contact me for exact location information, as well as the times and dates when I will be on patrol and can permit you entry.
Regards,
Peter Emmerick
Bellatrix looked up from the letter, startled. "He just wants to be a Death Eater."
Voldemort scoffed. "He said join my ranks, not become a Death Eater. I'll take full measure of him when I meet him. In any case, it seems as though penetrating the prison for a meeting won't need to be a clandestine affair. That's better, because it will likely buy me enough time to meet properly with Grindelwald. It also means you don't have to come."
Bellatrix felt her face fall, even though she tried hard not to show her disappointment. Her hands tightened around the letter, and Voldemort rolled his eyes.
"I won't need you there, Bellatrix, and it isn't a sightseeing trip."
She nodded, feeling a pit in her stomach as she obediently said, "I wouldn't want to be an obstacle or a distraction from your purpose, My Lord. If your will is that I stay behind, I shall gladly do so."
He stared at her for a very long moment then, so long that Bellatrix felt a bit uncomfortable. Finally he sniffed lightly and said, "I shall think on it and let you know."
Bellatrix couldn't help smiling at that. It was better than nothing, and there was a modicum of home. Voldemort kept his face stony as he said,
"Your cousin Clothilde Rosier is getting married tomorrow, yes? I hadn't planned on attending, but I've changed my mind."
Bellatrix grinned and dared to say, "Perhaps you might grant me a dance or two?"
He sighed and stepped away from the mantle, holding his hand out to her. Bellatrix frowned in confusion but took his hand, rising and letting him draw her near.
"Silly girl," he whispered. "Must I spell everything out so clearly for you? I want you to go to the wedding with me."
Bellatrix gasped. "You mean, like a -"
"Don't say it." Voldemort shook his head. Bellatrix had been just about to say date. Like a date. She swallowed the idea as the Voldemort reminded her,
"All those times playing at husband and wife were just pretend. I am not your… I am far above all of those silly little labels, you understand."
"Of course," Bellatrix whispered, shivering as his hands landed softly on her cheeks. He studied her face for a moment and then said,
"Dress adequately to be on the arm the Dark Lord himself."
"I shall try my very best to do you proud," Bellatrix nodded. He kissed her, a light touch of his lips to hers, and he said, "Go to your sister. Give her my condolences."
2 March 1973
Blaize Bailey
"Bella, I know I said fashionably late, but if we don't leave now, it'll look…"
His voice trailed off then as Bellatrix appeared at the top of the stairs. Voldemort watched in stunned silence as Bellatrix came down, murmuring apologies for how long she'd taken to get ready. Voldemort didn't answer her; he just studied her.
Her gown was black silk, long-sleeved and cut scandalously low in the front to reveal the gentle swell of her breasts. Her shoulders and neckline were encrusted with armour-like silver and crystal decorations. Her hair was drawn back by elegant braids against her head, with a low curly chignon at the base of her neck. High heels clacked on the staircase as she descended, and she carried her wand in a long, black velvet purse with silver and crystal decorations. She was wearing far more makeup than usual - her wide eye were heavily lined and her lips were a deep scarlet.
She finally reached the bottom of the stairs, and she gave Voldemort an apologetic look as she said, "All that fuss just to look like something out of the clearance bin, eh?"
He scowled and informed her, "You look beautiful. But isn't it in poor taste to upstage the bride?"
Bellatrix chuckled. "Shall we go, then?"
"Yes." He took her hand, his heart accelerating a little when he felt the cold metal of the ring he'd put on her finger. He Disapparated with expert silence from Blaize Bailey, and the two of them reappeared at the Rosier family country home where the wedding was being held. The groom, Ephram Shacklebolt, did not come from money the way Clothilde Rosier did.
Voldemort waited for Bellatrix to thread her arm through his, and he flashed her a tiny smile as they walked up to the enormous grand entrance. The doors creaked open to admit them, and the house-elf inside the entryway squealed with terror and Amplified his voice as he declared to the entire house,
"It is m-my g-g-great pleasure to announce the… the arrival of the D-Dark Lord himself!" stammered the house-elf. Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow, unimpressed by the creature. But then Bellatrix's uncle Stamford Rosier appeared, bowing low and making all sorts of welcoming exhortations. He eyed Bellatrix's presence on the Dark Lord's arm, and Voldemort rolled his eyes.
"I believe your house-elf is broken, Rosier," he drawled. "It seems to have rather an awful stutter. Perhaps you should get that fixed."
Stamford Rosier's cheeks darkened, and he nodded. "I do apologise, My Lord, if my home has proven insufficiently welcoming to you. Please, will you be so good as to come into the ballroom? Hello, Bellatrix."
He said those last two words as an afterthought, but Bellatrix was purposeful as she nodded and said, "Uncle Stamford. Congratulations on Clothilde being married. I'd thought perhaps she never would wed at all. She's nearly thirty, isn't she?"
Rosier's cheeks went redder than ever, and he laughed lightly as he led them to the ballroom. "Just turned thirty last month," he admitted. "But she's married now! The ceremony just ended a half hour ago. You're just in time for the celebration."
"I am sorry that we missed the ceremony," Voldemort lied. "We were otherwise engaged."
"It's no problem at all, My Lord!" Rosier insisted. "We are humbled by your presence."
In the ballroom, everyone bowed and curtsied and murmured platitudes as Voldemort walked by them. He ignored them all, leading Bellatrix to a table that had been wisely set aside for him alone. Dinner was a boring steak-and-potato affair, and the wine was unremarkable. They sat through the miserable toasts and speeches and first dance, and finally Bellatrix leaned over and said,
"I must sound terrible saying this, but her dress is horrid."
Voldemort snorted a little laugh, unable to control himself. She was right, of course. Clothilde Rosier was a lumpy woman with a plain face, and her plain, shiny white gown squeezed her in all the wrong places. Voldemort flicked his eyes up and down Bellatrix's form and whispered,
"I told you you'd upstage the bride."
Bellatrix smiled, her eyes locked on her cousin. He stared at her, at her pretty face and her petite body, and he was hungry for far more than the food that had been served. Bellatrix gazed ahead, but her hand found his under the table, and she asked quietly,
"Will you please dance with me once they open the floor?"
"Naturally," he replied, forcing his eyes away from her. Someone was probably watching him, and he feared his lust for Bellatrix would be visibly evident. He swallowed hard and didn't clap along with the others after the first dance. The leader of the hired string ensemble announced that the dance floor was now open, and Voldemort promptly rose from his chair. He bowed just enough to seem polite, and he held out his hand. "Miss Black, would you grant me the honour of a dance?"
Bellatrix took his hand and smiled. "The honour is all mine, My Lord. I assure you."
Many eyes followed them to the dance floor, and Voldemort was amused to note how many women were ferociously jealous of Bellatrix. Let them be jealous, he thought. They're all ugly and idiotic compared to her.
He brought her smoothly into a waltz, knowing they were being watched. Once more he noticed the striking dress she'd put on, the way her face was painted so carefully, the elegant twists in her hair, and he said,
"You really do look beautiful, Bella. But, then, you look beautiful in the morning, and after battle, and…" He trailed off, feeling a boiling sense of want coming up inside of him. Bellatrix seemed almost overwhelmed as he brought her closer to him and lowered his voice. "I had your body for the first time in Paris. Then on the train, then in Venice. In Blaize Bailey, so many times. In Vienna. And tonight, I'll have your body again. Then perhaps tomorrow, and ten years from now, because I'm the only one who will ever take you. Ever. Do you understand?"
"Hmm… oh, yes, My Lord," Bellatrix said in a voice tight with emotion. "I understand."
Voldemort kept his motions smooth and glanced around the ballroom of sycophants. He turned his eyes back to Bellatrix and informed her,
"You'll come with me to Nurmengard."
She smiled and nodded. "Thank you, My Lord."
He paused his dancing steps for a moment, lowering his ears to her lip as he whispered, "Tell me what name you'll cry out when we go home. Tell me what name makes you wet between your legs."
Bellatrix's breath hitched, but she managed to answer softly, "Tom."
"Good girl." He stood upright and began dancing, making his voice formal and light as he announced, "We're only staying another twenty minutes or so. This must be the most boring wedding that's ever happened."