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I don't own anything!
Summary: Tom Riddle knew what he
was doing. Bellatrix Black did not. She was the first Death Eater.
The
First
By Philandera
Chapter 2—The Hog's Head
It did not begin at the graduation night party at the Hog's Head, but it did begin at Hog's Head later on. You think back to it and with a stab of anger run your finger over the sharp edge of your knife. A drop of blood spills from your finger. You watch it fall to the tough, packed dirt of the tent you pitched while with the Dark Lord. It reminds you of the first night you spent with him.
Four years later…
"Bella, wash the tables while I close up, awright, luv?"
Bellatrix Black silently and without protest wiped the dirty rag over the dirty table. She glanced at it indifferently. It looked the same as before she "cleaned" it. In fact it was probably filthier.
Well, no one had said the Hog's Head was the most clean-cut tavern in Hogsmeade.
She knew she would not work for the Ministry ('Damn the ministry,' she thought, 'what's it ever done for us?' Just as in the street alleys, promotion was gotten by way of sex) or get a star career. She just needed one to get by.
Enter Riddle.
Tom Riddle was, to put it bluntly, an enigma. He paid a visit to the Hog's Head every night at nine-thirty without fail. It had only been a week so far, but he always requested Bellatrix to serve him, and she knew exactly what he wanted. He would say, "A Firewhiskey on the rocks, Bella, and a pitcher of mead for my associate" in such a refined and unwittingly sultry tone that Bella would have to turn away so he would not see her nipples become erect, begging to be noticed.
Bella was tall and dark, the opposite of her sister. Where Narcissa was blonde and thin, she had shiny black hair and a full figure. If Narcissa was modest, Bella was anything but shy. She favored dramatic 'V'-necks, and low-cut pants that never hid the tanned legs beneath for long—or very well.
But tonight, tonight struck Bella as a special night. Tonight Bella dug deep into her knowledge of magic and her bureau, and she was quite pleased with the finished product. Or rather, picture.
She was wearing black—although that was nothing short of ordinary—but it was not a funeral outfit. Her top could have passed as a lacy black bra with five inches of satin below, and her skirt was so short it was barely there. It displayed every asset of hers perfectly—every curve was accentuated. The randy man who did not look at her for less than half the night would be blind. Smiling smugly, Bella rubbed some musky-smelling oils into her cleavage, abdomen, and thighs. Definitely very sexy. Now that man who did not look at her would have to be suffering severely from sinus problems.
"Wot's the occasion, Bella my darling?" said the bartender with genuine interest. He did, however, know that she was completely off-limits. A staff rule that no one gave a damn about anymore. "A birthday, wot?"
"No, Willy. I just felt like wearing something special tonight," she said coolly.
"You always look right special," he replied.
A bell tinkled. Bella didn't have to check the dirty clock on the wall to know that it was nine-thirty. She promptly fell to ignoring Willy, who spilled half a pint of butterbeer in sneaking a glance at her shirt. She had snogged him a few times in the corner, when there were no decent customers for weeks. He had never forgotten the experience. She hadn't either—she hadn't the time to tell him he tasted like a wet dog.
"Bella, my dear," said Riddle pleasantly, "you're looking wonderful."
Who cared if he was ten years older!
She smiled and nodded to his associate, an old Hogwarts friend. Slimy Antonin Dolohov, who slid in and out of detentions as easily as a snake. No prizes for guessing how.
"A Firewhiskey on the rocks, my love, and what will Dolohov be having? Ah, make that two Firewhiskeys," he continued. Oh, that voice! It beckoned her irresistibly. "Could you spare us a moment, Bella? I do so enjoy your company. Sit down," he said invitingly.
"My pleasure," she managed to say. As she walked away, faster than usual, to fulfill their order, she congratulated herself on her excellent luck. As she filled their glasses, she knocked open the large obsidian ring on her finger, and sprinkled a light powder on the mug that was Riddle's. She didn't need Dolohov's attentions any more than she needed Willy's.
She sat herself primly at the empty seat at Riddle's left, before bending over farther than was needed to serve the two men. Smiling flirtatiously, she said, "Well, gentlemen. Entertain me."
"I would live to entertain you," Dolohov drawled, with a furtively smarmy wink.
"I would live to entertain you too, Tony," she answered sweetly, with a use of his schoolboy nickname, "if that entertainment included chains and a very sharp knife."
"Bella, my dear, would you kindly bring us both plates of the house special?" Riddle interrupted, before Dolohov, who was swearing under his breath, could whip out his wand.
"Of course," said Bellatrix coquettishly, swaggering away and flaunting her ass.
Before she could return, Riddle poured something out of a vial into her glass, grinning hugely.
"Go ask the bartender if there are any open rooms, Bella," said Riddle, at eleven.
Dolohov had left long ago, after discussing some business with Riddle intently, and Bella had had plenty of time to turn on her charm for Riddle. The room began to spin as the clock ticked nearer to midnight, and soon they were the only ones left in the tavern. The lights were dim.
"I don't have to ask. I know there are plenty of vacant rooms. I can serve you perfectly well." She didn't add she was the only one left to serve him.
"You already serve me perfectly well," said Riddle, who hadn't sipped his Firewhiskey in a few hours while Bella knocked back several. "Show me something about yourself that you haven't already."
Bella turned her back to him, and pulled her shirt off.
"Oh, but you forgot something," said Riddle, pleased that they had reached the point he had been lusting for. And he reached over and unhooked her bra.
Slowly, Bella pivoted around to face him, and her skirt-that-wasn't fell to her feet. Her breasts were shining with the oil she had so carefully applied, and her abdomen was tight with excitement. Riddle drank in the sight of her, drunk but almost completely aware of what she was doing. He held out a hand, which she took. He kissed her, and moaning, she opened her mouth to him. Viciously, they explored what the other had to offer, and she began to unbutton his shirt while he massaged her breasts. As she gasped for air that she couldn't breathe fast enough, he impaled her palate with his tongue and skittered his fingers lightly over the wetness that her thong couldn't absorb.
She unzipped his pants with her teeth, and he picked her up as easily as he would a kitten, placing her on a table. He bit her neck lazily, teasingly, as she resorted to something she never thought she would—begging.
"What was that, Bella?"
"I said, Please, Riddle!"
"Call me Tom," he breathed into her mouth, as she nibbled on his lower lip, drawing blood.
"Please, Tom!" she insisted. She ripped his boxers off, and gazed hungrily at his swollen member. She reached for it as a child reaches for fire, and he shot his cock into her mouth. As she swallowed all her had to offer, she pulled her thong off, and spread her legs invitingly.
Riddle took the invitation, and her screams of crazed pleasure echoed around the empty tavern.