Malfoy Manor

12 June 1970

"Bellatrix Black." Lord Voldemort crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head at the newly-graduated Hogwarts alumna who had requested a meeting with him. "You've come to ask for the Dark Mark. Is that it?"

She stared shyly at him and hesitated. "I have come, My Lord, to serve you in whatever capacity you see fit."

"Well, that would require me to assess just how fit you are to serve me." Voldemort narrowed his eyes and stalked around Bellatrix as though he were a predator enjoying the sight of his catch. "Legilimens."

She had no fight to put up against his Legilimency, so her mind cracked wide open at his invasion. She swayed a little where she stood. In her head, Voldemort saw her whispering to her fellow Slytherins that she wanted nothing more than to be a Death Eater. Those weren't real, one girl had said. Just rumours. But Bellatrix believed that the Dark Lord was amassing an army to help him conquer wizarding Britain, and she'd wanted to become a part of that army immediately. She'd sent an owl at once when she'd left school for good, writing from her parents' house in London and requesting that she be granted an audience with the Dark Lord.

He could see her at the Malfoy Christmas gathering this past December, going wholly unnoticed by Voldemort as he flitted from one strategic conversation to the next. She'd stared at him all night, then she'd gone home and fantasised. He was so handsome, she'd thought. So powerful and ambitious and handsome. She'd wanted nothing more than to lie beneath him, to have him bind her wrists up and choke her and slam into her from behind. She'd spent months thinking about taking him in her mouth.

Voldemort ripped himself from her head, and Bellatrix looked humiliated where she stood. She said nothing, good little thing that she was. Voldemort laughed at her, moving to stand before her and drifting his fingertips over her waist as he did. He had to admit that she was alluring. Only eighteen and built like a waif, her hair comprised of an explosion of silky black curls. Her eyes were dark and heavy, her lips a full pout. She was thin, with just the tiniest hint of a curve at her bust and hips. She would feel good, he thought. And it had been quite some time since he'd allowed himself a woman. He let his hand linger on her waist, testing how receptive she was to his touch.

Very receptive, as it turned out. Bellatrix's eyelashes fluttered as her lips parted, and she whispered carefully,

"Please, My Lord, allow me to serve you. I will be loyal and... discreet. And able."

There were no battles yet. But there would be. Of that, Voldemort was exceedingly certain. Once he had the resources to wage all-out war on the Ministry, on Dumbledore, there would be battles. And he could sense bloodlust coursing through Bellatrix Black. Perhaps she would be a good soldier for him one day, but today she might serve a slightly different purpose.

"You are uniquely suited among my current followers," Voldemort said quietly, tightening his fingers on her waist and pulling her a little closer to him. "You might help me... relax. Help me find a bit of release in this time of enormous tension. How would you feel about such a post, Miss Black?"

"Bellatrix," she whispered, as if he needed her permission to call her by her first name. He could call her whatever he damned well pleased; he could call her 'pussycat' if that had been what he'd wanted. She nodded and assured him again, "I promise to serve whatever purpose you desire of me, My Lord. With all that I am, I will serve you."

"Mmm. I do like your style, Bellatrix." Voldemort put his other hand on her waist, pulling her even closer and staring down at her. He tried not to let his gaze linger too long on her eyes, for he'd always found that looking too closely at a witch's eyes distracted him from the carnal task at hand. He remembered the way she'd thought of him, the obscene visions her mind had cooked up, and he whispered, "I reckon you'd be game for just about anything, hmm? And you'd be confidential about it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," she answered him. "Yes, My Lord."

A little shock of desire, of craving, shot up Voldemort's spine unexpectedly. He found himself going hard in the trousers he wore beneath his outer robe, and he swallowed hard as he tried to decide what to do. He could laugh at her again and send her away. He could pretend that the flirtation had just been a power move, and he could grant her the Dark Mark and tell her he'd call her if he needed her in battle. Or he could do what his body was aching to do.

"Get on your knees, Bellatrix," he murmured. She obeyed at once, and for some reason the way she raised her eyes to him made him even harder. Voldemort fought to keep his hands steady as he reached into his robes and unbuttoned his trousers. He pulled his cock out, studying Bellatrix's reaction. She stared for a solid three seconds at it, her eyes going wide and flashing. Hunger. That was the look of hunger, and that made Voldemort twitch in his own hand. Then she looked away, seeming to realise it was uncouth to stare. Her hands folded together before her, and she bowed her head demurely.

"Do you know what to do with it?" Voldemort asked plainly, and when Bellatrix nodded, he barked a laugh and said accusingly, "You were a little slut at Hogwarts, were you?"

"I had a boyfriend, My Lord," she said quietly, "but I am a virgin where it matters."

"A boyfriend," he repeated, feeling a very strange and entirely uncalled-for spike of jealousy. He shoved it away and demanded, "Who was he? I'm sure I know the name if it was anyone worthwhile."

"Rodolphus Lestrange, My Lord," Bellatrix mumbled, her hands tightening around each other. Voldemort looked into her head again and saw the scene of an acrimonious breakup, of handsome young Rodolphus accusing Bellatrix of being a 'bloodthirsty wench' who 'dreamed about war and fucking a warlord.'

"Is it true, Bella?" Voldemort tipped her chin up, wondering what had compelled him to shorten her name. When she hesitated, he cocked up an eyebrow and asked, "Do you dream about war? About fucking a warlord?"

"Yes, Master," she replied, and suddenly Voldemort's self-control crumbled. He growled with want, cracking her mouth open with a harsh squeeze on her jaw. He shoved his cock into her mouth, deciding that whatever she'd done to the silly Lestrange boy, this would be better. She gagged a little when he jammed his cock down her throat, and he instantly wished he'd gone more slowly. It was too much, the way her wet, warm mouth had closed around him. It had been years since he'd had any witch at all, and this one was too pretty, too obedient to handle.

She wrapped her fingers around his length and danced her hand up behind her lips, humming with delight against his skin. Voldemort found himself with his fingers knotted in her curls, pulling roughly at her hair as he pumped his hips back and forth. Slowly and carefully he moved, but he couldn't keep it from feeling like bliss. He shut his eyes and tried not to come. He tried not to think about the way her mouth felt, the sound and the vibration of her voice. He tried not to smell the delicious perfume she'd brought into the office with her. He tried not to feel her silky curls in his fists. But he heard her, and felt her, and smelled and saw her, and finally he grunted,

"Decide now if you want to taste it or not."

Her hands flew brazenly to his hips, and she buried him deeply in her throat as he pumped his seed into her mouth. It felt so good, like the best sort of comforting drunkenness, an explosion of contentment that ripped him apart in all the right ways.

"Bella," he heard himself whisper, and she hummed against his skin again. "Bellatrix."

Finally she pulled her mouth from him, swiping the back of her wrist over her lips in what Voldemort decided was the most seductive gesture he'd ever seen. He scoffed helplessly at the sight of her like that, her hair a mess and her lips pearly and swollen. He tucked himself away and instructed her,

"Stand up, Miss Black."

She did, rising on shaking legs and looking up at him with eyes that had glazed over with want. He contemplated using his fingers on her, but he didn't really care about her pleasure. She was here to serve him, to make his cock feel good. She could go home and touch herself for all he cared, but he wasn't about to do it for her.

Still, it took everything he had not to Scour her mouth and kiss her hard. He wanted to do that, to suck on her swollen lips and to dance his tongue with hers. But he didn't. He buttoned up his trousers and said in a casual tone,

"Yes, I think you'll make a fine servant. Roll up your left sleeve; I need to be able to Summon you whenever I want your services."

He tried to make it sound like she was less than human to him, like he simply intended on using her mouth - and later, other parts of her - to satisfy the most base and unsophisticated urges that he might have. And that was true. He did intend on doing that. But when he saw the glee on her face as she rolled up her sleeve, his chest pulled strangely. He cleared his throat and made his voice rough as he dragged his wand around her left forearm.

"Mordsmordre."

The Dark Mark appeared in an inky black flourish, and Bellatrix hissed in pain as it painted itself beneath her flesh. She stared at it as it faded through maroon to pink. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and her mouth had curled into a happy smile. Voldemort found himself studying her eyes again, looking at her slim nose and her cheekbones and her full lips. He examined the easy swell of her breasts over her low-cut tunic. He swallowed hard and pulled her sleeve down as he informed her,

"You may go. I'll call you through the Mark if I want you."

"Yes, Master. Thank you. Thank you, My Lord." Bellatrix grinned, tears streaming silently down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away. He wanted to mock her, to snap at her that he'd told her to go already. He wanted to kiss her.

"Go," he whispered again, his hand going unbidden to her cheek. His knuckles moved on their own to brush her tears away, and he said quietly, "I think I shall like having you about, Bellatrix Black. Now go."

She dipped into a deep and reverential gesture, a clumsy sort of curtsy, and she turned to walk quickly from Voldemort's office. Once she'd gone, he raked his fingers through his hair, the hair that was showing the first hints of grey, and he swallowed hard again.

She was nothing if not delicious, he thought. He would make very good use of her.