The delicious stroke of you inside my mind is like a drug I can't get enough of. Long before I felt it, I craved it, knowing full well that it was all that I desired and more. I can feel you sifting through my thoughts like scraps of used up parchment. You toss aside the things that are of no use to you and seek evidence of my ambition. My loyalty, devotion, subordination are all yours, my dark master, and have been so since the first moment I was old enough to speak your name in the privacy of my thoughts. I yearn for the power that service to you will bestow upon me, but more than anything, I desire to serve you . . .
The intoxication of the Dark Lord's intrusion on her mind had been both blissful and painful, leaving behind a horrific imprint she could feel burning her from the inside out. He hadn't even touched her, and still she suffered from the brand of his possession of her. Voldemort circled around her, sometimes slowly, and sometimes it seemed he moved so quickly that she could barely see him at all. He moved in such a way that she felt dizzy watching the black hem of his robes spin before her, the embroidered silver runes of power catching in the torch light, revealing glints of red thread that had most assuredly been dyed in the blood of innocence.
"What
have you to offer me, Bellatrix Black?" Just hearing him speak
aloud was divine, as he had a smooth voice that twisted around her
thoughts in serpentine ecstasy.
"You may speak," he said.
"I offer you everything I have, my lord," she did not lift her head, even though the swirling of his robes was starting to make her feel nauseous. He was enjoying her discomfort, she realized, taking great pleasure in her suffering, even if it was only minute's worth. "I would give you my very soul if you asked it of me."
Bella couldn't see him, but he was pleased. She sensed it in the change in the air, which had become less dense suddenly, a little more tolerable, and the spinning of his robes had stopped. He stood beside her, the soft leather of his shoes reflecting no more than a dim orange glow from the burning light above them. His shadow was like a blanket upon her, covering every inch of her, but unlike a blanket, which provided warmth and comfort, the shadow of the Dark Lord chilled her in such a way that assured her she would never feel warm again. Voldemort drew in a strange breath, and picked up his feet again, this time pacing the stone floor slowly.
"Tell me," he began, "is it true that you killed your mother, Bellatrix?"
She swallowed uneasily, a surge of guilt gripping her tightly. "Yes, my lord," she said. "It is true."
"Why?"
She didn't know how to answer that question. No one had ever asked her why she'd done it before, only how. The how of it was simple. Morgana Black had died no more than five hours after giving birth to her youngest daughter, Bellatrix. The healers all said she had suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and died peacefully in her sleep while cradling the infant child in her arms, but there were those who gossiped that Cesaro Black had killed his wife for bringing another daughter into the world when he so desperately needed a son to carry on the Black family name. By the time it was reported that Morgana Black was dead no evidence of magic could be traced, and so her death by natural causes had been recorded in the healer's tomes.
"Because she gave me life," Bella replied. She knew that wherever his line of questioning was leading, it was meant to make her uncomfortable, to expose the rawest edge of her nerve so that he might humble her with his mercy. "I killed her because she gave me life."
Voldemort's laughter was cold, appreciative, and this relaxed her, but only a small fraction. "For the gift of your life, you gave her death in return." He paused contemplatively and Bella listened to the sound of his footsteps shuffling over stone. "I too killed my mother," he said, stopping again, his feet firmly planted side by side in front of her. "You seem surprised, Bellatrix. In all your research you learned so little about my past, couldn't trace my origin, but I was indeed born, as all men are." His tone had become familiar, as though he were reminiscing with an old friend, but she wasn't going to let her guard down. Relaxation in his company was a plea for your own death. "I killed my mother for consorting with a muggle, and when I was old enough to avenge his defilement of her, I killed my father too."
Bella said nothing, but could feel the power of suggestion in her heart. Her father was no muggle, but all her life she'd blamed herself for her mother's death because she didn't want to believe that her own father would kill his wife. Narcissa claimed to barely remember their mother at all, but Andromeda had. Five years older than Narcissa, Andromeda had taken on the mother's role, but now she was lost them too, married to a muggle, mother to a mudblood whelp. His voice retracted the weakness of her wandering mind, reeled her back to him and held her suspended on the verge of his thought until she thought she'd go mad with anticipation for his next word.
"He never loved her," Voldemort said. Bella wasn't sure if he was talking about his own father, or her father. "He used her, and threw her away once he found out what she was." There was an eerie hint of sadness in his tone, which was quickly replaced with that righteous bitterness, "You and I are not so different at all, Bellatrix." He leaned in close, his breath arriving in a warm puff just beside her ear, "We killed our mothers, the both of us." His shadow enveloped her as the familiar twinge of guilt gripped her heart. "But I made my father pay for his crimes against her, and therein lies the difference between us."
"If you ask me to kill my father, My Lord. . ."
"You will kill him, I know." He hadn't let her finish, "Yes, Bella," a slender hand reached down, the fingers opening to cup her chin. Voldemort lifted her face so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. "I am very well aware of the lengths you would go to to please me." i His face, dear gods, his face/i She steadied her gaze, stilled her heart. By Zeus, the skin of his face had taken on curious wrinkles very much like the smooth scales of a snake. His eyes glinted red in the fire of the torch behind her, but underneath that false hue they were black as pitch and so cold. "I've been inside your mind. I know your heart, and even as you find me hideous, you would give yourself to me if I were to ask."
Bella hadn't noticed that she had drawn her lower lip between her teeth until she released it, her mouth remaining slightly open as she drew in a breath, marveling at the sight of him. Dark magic had corrupted his form, she realized, so that even as he was still a man, the serpent within had begun to take over his outward appearance. "All of me belongs to you, My Lord, mind, body and soul. I am your servant," she repeated steadfastly.
The curious slit of his mouth seemed to twitch into the appearance of a wan, but appreciative smile, "Lucius has brought me a most noble gift indeed. No other has come so willing to serve my cause without first thinking of his own desire." The Dark Lord spanned his open hand across her face. He admired her with those cold eyes, licking his parched lips before he continued, "And yet you, Bella, come to me thinking only of service, and so I will give you everything you desire."
"My only desire is to serve you," she said. "I ask for nothing in return."
"Yes," he hissed. "Yes, and so you shall serve me." His hand fell slowly to his side before Bella realized she was standing. Had she been standing moments earlier? She couldn't remember. His power was intoxicating; her mind swam. "Return to me two nights hence and I will give you your first task."
"Yes, My Lord," she lowered her head.
"Will you wear my mark, Bellatrix Black?"
She held out her arm to him, remembering the place she'd seen the Dark Lord's brand burned in Rodolphus skin. "I will wear your mark with pride, My Lord."
His touch against her skin was like the searing metal of a red-hot poker. She ground her teeth, clenched her jaw so tightly that her neck ached with its force, but more painful than anything was swallowing her own screams, for a loyal servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort received his touch undaunted by the scars it left in the flesh. She had not even flinched, but even Bellatrix was not strong enough to escape the falling of a single tear down her pale, white cheek