Black Family Residence, London
5 July 1970
"Bellatrix, kindly eat your dinner. If you're going to live in this house, you're going to eat." Druella Black spooned pea soup into her own pursed lips and glared at her eldest daughter. Andromeda was too busy eating to react, but young Narcissa flashed Bellatrix a sorrowful look. Cygnus Black wasn't home; he was working late at Gringotts. Bellatrix stirred her soup and said in a bland tone,
"Perhaps if Marley figured out where the salt and pepper are located, the soup would be palatable, Mother. Until then, I find I have no particular appetite for soup. So sorry."
Now Andromeda and Narcissa both giggled a little, but Druella glared at them as she set her own spoon down. She turned to her eldest daughter and snapped,
"If you've some critique over the House-Elf's cooking, Bellatrix, by all means take it up with her yourself."
"Oh. Look. Here she comes now." Bellatrix gestured rather grandly toward the arched doorway into the dining-room. The ancient, stooped-backed House-Elf came toddling into the room, holding out a sealed scroll as she croaked,
"Miss Bellatrix, Miss. This came for you by owl, Miss. Just for you. Extra confidential, it says."
That wasn't strictly true, though the outside of the scroll did read, 'Miss Bellatrix Black - Private.' The wax was black, as was the ribbon binding the scroll together. There was no coat of arms or other distinctive seal. Bellatrix gulped as she broke the wax and unfurled the little scroll. A little silver key fell out, as though it had been glued to the parchment until it was opened. Bellatrix picked the key up and pinched it between her fingers, reading the paper with wide eyes.
I require that you be conveniently located whenever I should have want of you. Pack a trunk and take it to Number 27, Rosary Gardens in Kensington, London. The key is for Flat C, located on the third floor. Come immediately. - LV
Bellatrix memorised the address and then pulled out her wand, quickly Vanishing the parchment. She tucked the little key into her pocket and rose from where she sat. Her mother gave her a look of alarm, and both her sisters seemed bewildered.
"I... erm... I've got a place of my own, apparently," Bellatrix said, and when Druella looked confused, she specified, "Things are looking up! Didn't you say you wanted me to find a position and a home of my own after school?"
"Wait. Where are you going?" Druella demanded. Bellatrix cleared her throat and said simply,
"Kensington."
She hurried out of the dining-room and trotted quickly up the stairs to her bedroom. She threw open her trunk and started throwing things inside. Her cosmetics bags - makeup and perfume and toiletries. Sleakeasy's, ribbons, and her wooden combs. Her jewelry box. Several short dresses and a few longer gowns. Wide-legged trousers, leggings, and tunics. Knickers and bras and pyjamas. Flat, sensible boots and shiny high heels. A few books that she found interesting. At that point, she reckoned she had everything interesting, and she seized the handle of her trunk and gripped her wand carefully in her hand.
She remembered the Three D's of Apparition - Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. She was very deliberate and determined as she thought of the third floor of Number 27, Rosary Gardens, Kensington, London. She repeated the address in her mind a few times and then whirled to her right, disappearing with a crack from her parents' house before anyone could come up to her room.
When the world came back into being around her, she glanced around and saw the elegant interior of a Georgian red brick townhouse that had been divided into flats. She was standing at the landing of the winding stairs, looking at the only door on the level. It was white and had a brass C upon it. Bellatrix pulled her key out of her pocket with shaking fingers and put it into the keyhole. She turned the black iron knob and pushed the door open, and when she stepped inside, she found the place was already illuminated by electric Muggle bulbs. She put her heavy trunk down beside the front door, which she shut and locked behind her. She walked slowly through the entryway, down to the end where she found open doorways leading into two rooms. One was a parlour, a small sitting-room with jade green wallpaper and white wood accents. There was green furniture and green draperies - the place was almost overwhelmingly green. The other room was a bedroom in a lovely shade of blue. The bed was wide and high, and Bellatrix could see a black-and-white en suite bathroom through the far side of the room.
She turned round, a grin on her face, and passed a small W.C. She continued down the corridor, finally turning right into the kitchen. She dragged her fingers over the butcher block countertops and glanced at the heavy wooden table by the bay window. Her heart raced as she wondered if this place belonged to him.
"It's yours. In a manner of speaking."
Bellatrix whirled around and gasped, feeling shocked by the way he seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Perhaps he had done so. She wasn't entirely sure what he was capable of doing. He walked up to Bellatrix and loomed over her, and only now did she realise she didn't even quite reach his shoulder.
"Hello, My Lord." Her voice was wispy to her own ears, which went hot as she asked, "What do you mean... it's mine? You wish for me to stay here?"
"Yes." Lord Voldemort glanced around and folded his arms over his chest, tipping his head down at Bellatrix. "It isn't a gift, you understand. It's compensation... or, rather, putting you in the right conditions to do your job properly."
He flicked his eyes up and down Bellatrix's form, and she gulped as she tried to remember just who he was. He was a murderer, they all said. He was an aspirational dictator. A madman. But he was devastatingly handsome, and as Bellatrix remembered the feel of his fingers on her, she felt her breath quicken between her lips. Voldemort dragged his top teeth over his bottom lip and asked quietly,
"Are you ready to do your job properly, Miss Black?"
"Of course, My Lord," she nodded. He sniffed and gestured into the L-shaped kitchen, and he said plainly,
"Make us tea."
Bellatrix frowned in confusion. Tea? With magic, she wondered? Probably not. She kept her eyes down and moved through the kitchen in a daze, searching out a kettle and filling it with water from the taps. She put it on the electric coil burner and futzed with the knobs until she found the right one and managed to heat up the burner. Then she rifled through the cupboards until she found two teacups and saucers. She found a battered-looking tin that had teabags in it, and she carefully arranged one in each cup. She murmured over her shoulder,
"Milk or sugar, Master?"
"Neither," he said, his voice tight. The kettle whistled loudly from the stove, and Bellatrix tried to keep her hands steady as she clutched the handle and filled up the teacups. She overfilled one, for she was inexperienced with such tasks, and she swore quietly as she set the kettle down and reached for her wand.
"Tergeo," she whispered, and the extra water was siphoned up. She turned round and gave Voldemort an uncertain look as she asked, "A biscuit or... anything else, Master?"
"No." He stepped quickly up to the counter, picked up his steeping cup of tea, and met Bellatrix's eyes. Then he dropped the teacup, quite deliberately, and Bellatrix gasped. Then it Vanished, gone by the power of his wandless magic before it could hit the floor. Bellatrix huffed out a breath of surprise, and Voldemort Vanished the rest of the tea paraphernalia. She scoffed in alarm, but he smirked and informed her,
"I can Vanish anything I want, Bellatrix. I didn't want to drink the tea; I just wanted to watch you make it. You understand?"
She did. She did understand, so she nodded. He was all-powerful, even with her. Especially with her. Bellatrix swallowed hard and told him,
"I'll brew up all tea you like, My Lord, if it makes you happy. I'd do anything if it made you happy."
"Is that what you want? You want to make me happy?" Voldemort was quite serious then as he backed Bellatrix up toward the kitchen wall. She nodded as her back hit the rose-patterned wallpaper, and she pressed her palms against the wall. Voldemort nudged ever closer to her, lowering his face until his lips were so close that Bellatrix could practically taste them. His fingers trailed up the inside of her leg, and he mumbled to her,
"You wear skirts this short, Miss Black, and all manner of men will be ogling my property."
"Longer skirts in future, then, Master," Bellatrix nodded. He pulled his hand up a little farther, his throat bobbing visibly as he curled up half his mouth.
"I like you, Bella. You amuse me." He dragged his tongue over his lower lip, and Bellatrix struggled to keep his eyes open. He pulled his fingers ever higher and whispered, "You know what else amuses me?"
"No, Master. What amuses you?" Bellatrix's voice shook like a leaf, and her palms were sweaty against the wallpaper. Voldemort let out a dark little laugh, and he tipped his head as he answered her,
"The fact that I know... I just know... what I'm going to find in your knickers." His fingers pulled the crotch of her satin knickers aside, and his throat bobbed again as he rubbed circles on her clit with his thumb. Bellatrix gasped and bucked her hips forward, and he nodded. "Mmm-hmm. Completely soaking wet. That's what I knew I'd find. Are you aroused by Vanished tea sets, Bella?"
"I'm aroused by you, My Lord," Bellatrix answered honestly. He met her eyes more directly then, and she couldn't help but stare into the dark depth of his gaze. But he shook his head, his thumb stilling as he insisted,
"It doesn't matter what arouses you. All that matters is what arouses me, Bellatrix. You belong to me, for the purposes of giving me pleasure. You know that."
"I know that," she repeated, suddenly wanting nothing more than for him to kiss her. Instead, she found herself screaming and throwing her head back against the wall, for he'd shoved two fingers roughly into her. The barrier of her virginity had fought back just hard enough that it had hurt, really and truly. Bellatrix wrenched her eyes shut and felt tears squeeze their way out. Somehow Voldemort managed to shove a third finger into her, and when he started to pump them, Bellatrix shrieked in agony.
It burned like fire as he broke her in like a new leather shoe. He twisted and pulled, pushing and yanking as his breath turned into shallow pants. He ground his erection hard against Bellatrix's abdomen, and within a few moments, the searing pain started to transition into something deeper and significantly more pleasant. Bellatrix's face fell forward, but she managed to raise her eyes to meet Voldemort's. His face twisted and he bucked his hips hard against Bellatrix a few times, his breath huffing out a few unintelligible words.
He wrenched his fingers out of Bellatrix's body, and suddenly she felt empty and hungry and buzzing with energy all at once. He stared at his hand, and Bellatrix followed his gaze to his fingers. She was a little embarrassed to see traces of blood in the fluids that coated his skin. She gulped hard and pulled out her wand, whispering a Tergeo and a Scourgify to clean up his hand. He smirked at her and jutted out his chin imperiously.
"How about the other mess?"
Bellatrix was confused until Voldemort flicked his eyes down to the front of his robes. Suddenly Bellatrix understood, and her cheeks went hot as flames as she cleaned up the trousers where he'd spilled himself. Then she realised what had happened. He'd found his climax just from the sensation of plunging three fingers roughly into her unpractised entrance. That made Bellatrix's body come more alive than ever, and she struggled not to squirm against the wall. He took her wand and tucked it back into the holster at her hip, and he put a hand on either side of her head. He stared down at her for what felt like an eternity, and finally he lowered his face like he meant to kiss her.
He stopped, though, with his lips a half breath away from hers, and he teased her,
"You want to me to kiss you."
"I want to make you happy," Bellatrix said again. He moved so close then that she could feel the rough texture of his lips brushing hers as he scoffed and scolded her,
"Do not lie to me. You want me to kiss you. But it doesn't matter what you want, does it?"
"No, Master," Bellatrix breathed somehow. She shut her eyes then, for she felt his knuckles grazing from her shoulder up her neck, and she shivered where she stood. Voldemort dragged his lips along hers, making no movement to really kiss her. Then he pulled away, and Bellatrix thought she was going to faint. She was so wound up, so tense and tight and hungry, and she fought hard to find Voldemort's eyes. Finally she did, and murmured,
"Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Dinner. At the Savoy. Don't be late. Dress elegantly."
He pushed off the wall and started to walk away, and Bellatrix was so breathless that it took everything she had to call after him,
"Wait! My Lord."
He turned round, his hand on the threshold of the kitchen, and cocked up an eyebrow. Bellatrix shrugged.
"What is the Savoy?"
He laughed then and informed her, "It's where I'm staying these few weeks. The grill downstairs is the finest Muggle restaurant in London. This is not a date, you understand. I find myself quite sick and tired of eating room service, of staying holed up in my suite. But neither can I go back into the wizarding world until the heat from the Ministry is off. So I will be dining in the grill tomorrow night at eight o'clock, and I shall have a smartly-dressed woman with me. Am I understood?"
Bellatrix nodded, thinking now that it was entirely certain she would lose consciousness. Somehow she managed to whisper,
"Tomorrow at the Savoy. Eight o'clock. I'll be on time. I'll be dressed elegantly."
"Good girl, Bella." Voldemort flicked his eyes up and down her body again, his throat tightening visibly before he nodded and and said, "Night, then."
"Goodnight, My Lord," Bellatrix whispered, but he'd already Disapparated.
The Savoy Hotel
6 July 1970
"Here you are, Miss."
The Muggle cab driver pulled up on the Strand and turned over his shoulder as he said politely,
"Fifty pence total, Miss."
Bellatrix swallowed hard and opened her black velvet clutch. She'd found a stash of Muggle money, thousands and thousands of pounds, in a drawer in the kitchen. It had obviously been left for times such as this. Unsure of how many pence were in a pound, Bellatrix picked out a one pound coin and handed it up to the cab driver. He started to make change, but she said quietly,
"Keep it."
"Thank you, Miss." The cab driver scrambled from the driver's side and made his way round to the passenger side of the car. He opened Bellatrix's door, and she tried not to slip on the rain-slicked road as she nodded her thanks and hustled past him. The doorman at the Savoy opened the north entrance doors, and once again she just nodded her thanks.
She'd worn an off-the-shoulder black gown in wispy chiffon, with her shiny black pumps and white satin gloves that reached her elbows. She'd worn a strand of fine pearls round her neck and pearl studs in her ears, and she had her curly hair piled atop her head carefully. She held her black velvet clutch in one hand as she stepped into the boisterous lobby of the Savoy.
"Good evening, Miss," said the Muggle concierge, taking her by surprise and making her jolt. She must have looked quite alarmed, for he asked, "May I help you at all tonight?"
"Erm... the Grill. The Grill Room?" Bellatrix knew she probably sounded like a fool, but the concierge smiled warmly and gestured behind her. "Just that way, Miss. Pleasant evening to you."
"You, too," Bellatrix mumbled, though in truth she couldn't care less whether a Muggle had a pleasant evening or not. She started toward the Grill, panicking when she saw the maitre d'. It wasn't quite eight, and she had no name to give for a reservation. She paused just outside the doors, and then suddenly a hand was at the small of her back and lips were beside her ear.
"You look good enough to eat."
"Master." Bellatrix turned her face to see him appraising her, and he threw one eyebrow up, seeming very impressed as he took in her entire appearance. She studied him right back, taking in his classic tuxedo and feeling a rush of want. Bellatrix found herself saying quietly, "You look so handsome."
She'd sounded a little desperate then, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. He cleared his throat and guided her toward the maitre d'. For some reason, his hand felt wondrous on her lower back. It was like he was being protective and possessive at the same time, and Bellatrix resisted the urge to grin like a fool at him. She stood with her eyes down as Voldemort said to the Muggle,
"Party of two for eight o'clock. The name is Riddle."
Riddle. That was odd. Bellatrix frowned a little as the host took two card stock menus and led them off to a round two-top table. When they sat, Bellatrix took her menu and listened as Voldemort ordered them waters and a bottle of Beaujolais wine. The host and waiter took off, and Bellatrix murmured softly,
"Riddle. That's a funny name."
"You think so?" He glared at her over his menu, and for a moment, Bellatrix was very afraid of him. Then his dark eyes softened just a little, and he scoffed. "You're right. It's a ridiculous name, but they needed one to hold the reservation, and I couldn't very well... anyway. Let me know what you'll be having."
Bellatrix studied the menu. It was a three-course prix fixe menu, so she had no option of ordering the cheapest choice. She cleared her throat a little and finally said,
"I would like, perhaps... the greens salad and the duck breast with cherry. Thank you."
"Hmm." Voldemort pursed his lips, and before she could ask what was wrong, he shrugged and shut his menu. "Great minds and all that."
Bellatrix was still a little confused, until the waiter came back and took their order.
"Two greens salads and two of the duck breast," Voldemort said firmly. Then Bellatrix understood. They'd chosen the same thing. The waiter took their menus and walked off, and when the sommelier came to give them a sample of the wine, Bellatrix found herself studying Voldemort's face far more carefully than she'd ever done before.
He looked at once youthful and old, she thought as he sipped the wine and then nodded. He was in his early or mid forties, she knew, though she didn't know his specific age, nor his birthday. She only knew a scant few things about him. He liked power. He liked Beaujolais wine. He liked greens salads. He liked duck breast with cherries. He liked to have his cock sucked.
"Miss?"
Bellatrix jerked her face up and just nodded at the sommelier, who had an expectant look on his chubby face. She wasn't sure what she was nodding about, but the sommelier poured her a wide glass of rich red wine, and she smiled a little as he scurried away.
"To dinners that are most assuredly not dates," Bellatrix said, holding up her wine glass. Voldemort smirked and sipped from his own glass. Bellatrix took a sip and savoured the deep flavour, setting down the glass and folding her hands in her lap. She glanced around at the restaurant, at the pianist in the corner and the tables of ten raucously talking Muggles. She studied her environs for so long that she didn't realise Voldemort had been staring at her the whole while. When at last she turned her face back to him, he pinched his lips and said tightly,
"The thirty-first of December."
"I beg your pardon, My Lord?" Bellatrix was confused, but he just nodded and said,
"My... my birth date. It's the thirty-first of December. Nineteen twenty-six, if you must know that bit."
Bellatrix's mouth fell open a little, and she wondered just how often he'd been inside of her head without noticing.
"All the time, though Legilimency is not a simple game of mind-reading," he said. He lowered his gaze and touched his napkin to his lips as he noted, "At some point, you'll need to learn Occlumency. I do not wish for my enemies, should they get ahold of you, to see such sensitive imagery of me."
"Of course not, Master. I'll... erm... I'll try to learn it. Occlumency." Bellatrix tried not to chew her red lipstick off in her nervousness. Voldemort rolled his eyes and said,
"Silly girl. Not just anyone can teach you. I'll make time; you seem like a quick enough learner."
"Oh." Bellatrix was about to say something else on the matter, but their salads arrived. It was spinach and arugula with caramelised red onion and shaved radish and a simple vinaigrette, but it was still tasty. Bellatrix ate hers in silence, trying not to think of much since her mind apparently was not entirely her own. She finished her salad and set her fork down, reminding herself that this was not a date. She was not here to chit-chat, to make idle conversation. She was here so that the Dark Lord would not be sitting alone at a table during his exile from the Magical world. She was here to make him happy, whatever that meant.
"There's dancing afterward," he said offhandedly, and Bellatrix stared at him with parted lips. She ignored the Muggle waiter as he cleared their salad plates. She kept her eyes trained on Lord Voldemort. Once the waiter had gone, Voldemort sniffed and shrugged as he noted, "Every night I hear a Muggle jazz band playing after dinner hours end. They... people dance for hours."
"Do they?" Bellatrix wasn't exactly certain what the right response to that revelation was. Voldemort himself seemed to get a grip on himself then, shoving his plate away a little and saying firmly,
"Perhaps, if some other night before I leave here, I find myself quite bored, I might summon you to come in dance-appropriate attire and entertain me for a few hours."
"Whatever you command, Master," Bellatrix nodded. A passing waiter heard that, flashing Bellatrix a confused and concerned look as he went by. Voldemort rolled his eyes and held his hand out a little. The waiter vibrated where he stood, and Bellatrix knew that Voldemort had Confounded the waiter to think of something else.
"Do me a favour, will you?" Voldemort snarled quietly. "Lay off the Master bit in their public, hmm? Last thing I need is one of their constables giving me a damned inquisition to ensure I don't own you or something."
"But you do own me," she whispered, and he narrowed his eyes.
"To them, that's illegal. Stop talking about it. Now."
"All right." Bellatrix lowered her eyes to her lap, and after awhile Voldemort snapped,
"Entirely too long between courses. The salads were cleared ten minutes ago; the duck should have been out by now. Ridiculously lax service for such an esteemed... oh."
His complaining was cut short by the arrival of the waiter with a covered platter. He peeled back the metal cover and set down a plate of duck in front of both Voldemort and Bellatrix.
"May I get you anything else?" The waiter was being snippy now, and Bellatrix knew he'd heard Voldemort complaining. Why hadn't Voldemort known that the waiter was near, if he could so easily get into people's heads? But then Bellatrix realised he probably entered specific minds at will. It wasn't as though he could just hear everything everyone was thinking all the time.
"Nothing else," Voldemort said primly, shaking his head. He waited for Bellatrix to pick up her fork and knife, and once she cut herself a bite of duck and dipped it into the cherry sauce, he started to eat. He was watching her, she knew, and she tried her best to look feminine. It was difficult, given that she was slicing up duck breast that had been slightly overdone. She ate some of the asparagus on the side and a few bites of duck and then found herself quite full.
"Not sure I'll have room for dessert," she admitted. When she saw Voldemort's cold eyes, she amended, "I'll happily sit here whilst you eat it, though."
"No." He shook his head and set his knife and fork down. He dabbed at his lips again and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He took out a few bills of Muggle money and set them down on the table, and he told her, "I don't want ice cream, Bellatrix. Nor cake. I want... a different sort of dessert."
Bellatrix felt her cheeks go warm, and she wondered if he meant to take her up to his suite. She remembered the sight of it, and he must have been in her mind then, for he shook his head and informed her,
"You're not coming upstairs. Not tonight. I'm putting you in a taxi back to your flat."
"You are?" Bellatrix felt quite confused, and when Voldemort nodded, he glanced down at the money on the table and said firmly,
"Come."
When Bellatrix rose, he swept his hand to the small of her back again. He pressed more firmly this time than he did on the way in, but the gesture still felt so protective and possessive that Bellatrix got dizzy. He led her out of the restaurant and through the lobby to the north entrance of the hotel. Bellatrix stared out at the rain that was coming down in a steady vertical sheet, wishing she possessed the ability to wandlessly waterproof herself. She didn't dare ask Voldemort to do it.
"Bella," she heard him say, so quietly that she could hardly hear him over the lobby pianist and the hum of conversation. She met his dark eyes, and he reminded her, "This was not a date."
She nodded. "I know, My Lord. Thank you, just the same."
He shook his head but said nothing. He raised his eyes to the door and suddenly seemed to make up his mind about something. He seized Bellatrix's hand in his, and as he walked quickly toward the door, the Muggle doorman asked,
"May I hail you a taxi, sir?"
"No. I'll do it myself," Voldemort growled. The doorman looked perplexed, but Voldemort barreled past him through the door into the rain, dragging Bellatrix behind him. He led her half a block down the Strand through the pouring rain, and then suddenly she found herself pressed against the outside of the building between street lamps. It was dark and quiet here, and rain dripped from Voldemort's hair down onto Bellatrix's face as he hovered over her.
"Tonight was just to entertain me," he said, but his voice shook a little. Bellatrix shivered where she stood, for the rain was a bit chilly, but she agreed,
"I was only here to please you, My Lord. It's all I ever want to do."
"I know." He lowered his face to hers then, pressing his lips hard against hers without warning. Bellatrix squealed with surprise and raised her wet, gloved hands up to his cheeks on impulse. She gasped as he took her waist in his own hands, and he used the opportunity to plunge his tongue between her lips.
She'd kissed Rodolphus Lestrange countless times when they'd been lovestruck children at Hogwarts, but this was different. Rodolphus had been boyish and clumsy. Lord Voldemort was nothing of the sort. He was powerful here, standing with her against a building in the rain, his mouth crushed against hers and his tongue dragging on the roof of her mouth. He pulled her lip between his teeth for a moment and then pressed his lips gently to hers to finish it all off.
She panted wildly as he took a half step away and held his arm in the air. For a second, Bellatrix was confused, but then she saw that he was hailing an approaching taxi. The black cab pulled up alongside the edge of the Strand, and Voldemort stared at Bellatrix through the rain for a moment. Then he walked over to the car and opened the rear passenger door. He took a few coins out of his wallet and passed them through the cab to the driver as Bellatrix approached. She was dizzy and warm and wanting so much more as she slid onto the leather seat, thinking she ought to apologise for getting the cab all wet.
Voldemort stood on the other side of the door, sopping wet in his tuxedo. His eyes flicked up and down her body as though he were photographing her with his mind, and he nodded once.
"Goodnight," he said crisply, shutting the taxi door before she had a chance to answer.
"Twenty-seven Rosary Gardens, please," Bellatrix murmured, staring into the taxi's side mirror as they pulled away. Lord Voldemort turned from the sidewalk and quickly walked back toward the north entrance of the Savoy, and Bellatrix's stomach fluttered as she realised she could still taste him on her lips.
Chapter Text
The Savoy Hotel, London
7 July 1970
... I have attached a copy of the Undesirable poster for your reference. At the present time, there is elevated energy and interest within the Ministry in the interest of your capture. While the Manor seems secure, and you are always welcome in my home (or, indeed, any of our homes), I can not guarantee that the Ministry is not monitoring the place. Please do advise whether we will be seeing you in the near future, Master, or if you intend on continuing to lay low until the Ministry grows complacent. I'm sure you know what my humble advice would be. Know that we all remain your eager, loyal, and devoted servants and that none of your inner circle has betrayed you in any way. I remain your slave entirely - Abraxas Malfoy.
Lord Voldemort set the letter from Malfoy down and turned his attention to the Undesirable poster, which showed a photograph of him from years earlier - the most recent rendering the Ministry had been able to cull. The poster stated that the man calling himself Lord Voldemort was wanted for torture, murder, and conspiracy and treason against the Ministry of Magic. Those were serious charges, ones that would earn Voldemort a Dementor's Kiss if the Ministry had their way.
He'd written back to Malfoy, insisting that his plants in the Ministry get to work Imperiusing fellow employees to take the heat off him as quickly as possible. He'd also said he would be remaining in hiding (he did not specify where) until further notice, and that he wanted a summary of relevant information and news by owl every other day.
Now it was nearly midnight, and Voldemort paced in his suite, feeling so trapped he thought he might start breaking furniture to occupy himself. Instead he straightened his black tie round his neck and glanced into a mirror to ensure that he looked relatively neat, and he left his suite and locked it behind him.
He wasn't sure why he didn't just Apparate. Actually, he did know why. He needed the walk. It was an hour's stroll through night-clad London from the Savoy to her Kensington flat. As Voldemort rode the lift downstairs and nodded briskly to its operator, he realised that he was comforted by the thought of spending time with her. Even if it was just physical, even if she was like a toy to him, she still made him feel relaxed and contented with her mere presence.
She was intriguing, Voldemort thought as he strolled down the sidewalks through Knightsbridge. She had, by all accounts, spent her life being sharp and unpleasant to people. Eye-rolling was a specialty of hers, her teachers had all said. Snapping at authority figures, ignoring her fellow pupils, procrastinating, losing her temper in explosive fits of rage. By everyone's opinion, she was brash and unpredictable. But that was not the Bellatrix Black that Lord Voldemort knew.
For him, she was quiet, demure. Shy and servile, eager to please. Predictable. For him, she was a different person that she was for everyone else. And perhaps he was different for her, too. With another person, he would have never done anything like he'd done the night before. He'd never kissed a witch properly, because it had always seemed like far too intimate a gesture to carry out. He'd rutted a few girls at Hogwarts who'd crushed hard on him. He'd taken them roughly in spare classrooms. Later, there had been a few witches who had come into Borgin and Burke's and flirted so aggressively that he'd fucked them in the broom closet.
But there was something different about Bellatrix Black. She'd made him want her, crave her, desire her. She'd made it feel good to press her back against the building exterior in the Strand. She'd tasted like vanilla, like black pepper. She'd tasted the same way she'd smelled, and that had been so intoxicating that Voldemort had torn himself from her and hailed her a taxi and practically thrown her into it. Otherwise he would have moaned into her mouth. He would have touched her face; he would have whispered her name in the rain. And none of that would have been good.
As he walked past the front of the Muggle Queen's palace, Lord Voldemort thought distantly that someday he'd be even grander than she was. Buckingham Palace was impressive, and all the pomp surrounding Queen Elizabeth was elaborate. But Lord Voldemort intended on being properly worshipped. He would be more like a god than a king, if one were to use a Muggle lens. Suddenly he paused, staring up at Buckingham Palace and imagining himself with an adoring crowd before him. And beside him was Bellatrix Black, battle-hardened and kissed to shreds by him. He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed before continuing on through Green Park toward Belgravia.
Even in the middle of the night, Muggle London had life. Televisions were on inside the row houses. Pubs blared rock music, and loud laughter and conversation leached out into the streets. Voldemort couldn't fault the Muggles for their joie de vivre. He'd only seen it rivaled in wizarding New York, where raucous night clubs played music until sunrise. Diagon Alley, and even Knockturn Alley, would be dank and quiet right now, he knew. Hogsmeade was sleeping.
He finally came to the corner of Old Brompton Road and Rosary Gardens, veering right and staring up at the third floor of number twenty-seven. Her lights were off. She was sleeping. He didn't care.
He unlocked the main door of the townhouse and then patterned up three flights of winding stairs, feeling mildly winded and taking a moment to catch his breath on the landing. As he stepped up to the flat he'd bought for her, he felt the dull buzz of her wards against him and smirked. Smart girl, to ward herself up where she was living alone. He slashed his wand through the air and tore her wards apart, knowing that his magic was far stronger than hers could ever be. He unlocked the door with the simple charm all first-year Hogwarts students learned and pushed it open, shutting it behind him.
"Lumos," said a voice from down the corridor, and suddenly her figure came dashing out of her bedroom, sprinting down the corridor in the milky, pulsing blue light of her wand. Voldemort curled up half his mouth and adjusted his own grip on his wand, ready for any defensive spells she might whip blindly toward him. But as she approached him, the bright wandlight she was holding out bathed him, and he cocked up an eyebrow at her. She lowered her wand at once, her face looking awestruck, and when Voldemort reached for the light switch on the wall, he heard her whisper, "Nox."
He stared at her for a moment, amused and aroused by the short, tight nightgown she had on. It was black lace and satin, clinging to her pretty body like a glove. Her hair had been tied into a thick braid down her back. Voldemort found himself hungry all of a sudden, and as he raised his eyes to her, he said in mock apology,
"I am sorry for the inconvenient work hours, Miss Black."
"It's no trouble at all, Master," she replied, her perfect breasts rising and falling as she recovered from the shock of thinking someone had broken into her flat. He'd awakened her; he could see that plainly enough by the way her eyes were still bleary with sleep. He didn't care.
"Go back into your room. Take the nightgown off. Knickers, too. Untie your hair. Wait for me on the bed," he commanded her. She bowed her head for a moment, a little gesture of respect that felt just right, and she turned and padded barefoot down the narrow corridor.
Voldemort's throat felt a little tight as he watched her go. She was pretty. Very pretty. So very pretty. His breath shook more than he wanted as he locked up the door and warded it more thoroughly. Then he took his time following her to the bedroom, pausing to loosen his tie and pull it off over his head. He kept the slip knot in it and clutched it in his hand, and when he walked into her bedroom, he set the tie on the brocade coverlet.
She looked frighteningly pretty reclined on the pillows like some sort of princess. She wasn't anything of the sort, he knew, but, still, she was lovely. He unbuttoned his suit jacket as he stared at her, avoiding her eyes as he tossed it over the top of her dresser. He sniffed lightly as he pulled his suspenders down and unbuttoned his black pinstripe trousers, and he unfastened and pushed away his shirt. He stripped methodically, folding his clothes and not caring that she could see his half-hard cock growing more firm by the moment.
Once he was naked, he stepped up alongside the bed, trailing his fingers from her knee to her hip. She shivered a little, and finally he couldn't force himself to keep from looking her in the eye. Her gaze locked onto his and her fists tightened a little as he dragged his palm up her stomach and squeezed at a breast.
"I came here to fuck you," he informed her crisply, and she swallowed hard before she whispered,
"If that's what you want, My Lord, then you may do it, of course."
"I know that," he snapped, squeezing her breast so roughly that she whimpered. "You belong to me; you think I forget that bit?"
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean... I phrased that wrong. What I meant was that I willingly and happily accept my duties. My service to you is completed with joy. That is what I meant. I'm sorry."
He released her breast and dragged his knuckles back down her front. He let the pads of his fingers go between her legs and felt that she'd already flushed wet there. Of course she had; she was a proper whore when it came to wanting him. She wouldn't bleed, he knew. It probably wouldn't even hurt that badly. He'd stuffed three fingers into her and pounded them back and forth in her entrance two days earlier. That should have taken care of any resistance her body might be inclined to give him. She was still a virgin to his cock, but she'd take him just fine. She wanted him; she was wet. He'd stretched her. This would be easy.
"Hands and knees," he growled, and when she hesitated a half second too long, he shoved at her hip and barked, "Get on your hands and knees. Are you defiant, deaf, or stupid, Bellatrix? Hands and knees. Now."
She moved then, scrambling to roll over. Voldemort climbed up onto the bed, grabbing his tie from where he'd set it down. He snatched at one of her hands and then the other, sending her crashing downward until her face was burrowed into the blankets. He slid his tie over her hands and yanked at the knot, tightening it around her wrists. Bellatrix moaned like a harlot, and Voldemort couldn't help but smirk. He shoved her thighs apart and lined himself up, and then he pushed in.
He groaned, unable to stop himself from doing so, at the feeling of burying himself to the hilt within her. She was wet and warm and very tight, and it felt so good that he had to pause to keep from spilling himself right then and there. She felt like a slick, warm sleeve around him, and as he started to pump his hips, he wrenched his eyes shut and fought hard not to whisper her name.
He finally realised it wasn't going to last long no matter what he did. He gripped her narrow hips in his hands and opened his eyes, watching as he pulled her away and backed his hips up. Then he slammed himself forward and wrenched her back against him. He repeated this, harder the second time and even harder the third. Then, before he knew what was happening, he was moving like a jackhammer, pounding her so vigorously that he distantly thought it probably hurt. He didn't care.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He was breathless as he taunted her, and she sounded dizzy and drunk as she moaned back,
"Yes, Master." Her voice was muffled by the blankets as he careened into her over and over again. He could feel her body going tight and knew she was about to come around his cock. He sped up his motions and fucked her harder than ever through her climax, hearing the steady whine of her voice as she half-whispered,
"Oh, yes. Yes. Yes, My Lord. Please."
"Please what?" His voice was just a gravelly pant now, and his hands cinched around her hips as her backside slapped against his pelvis. "Please what, Bellatrix?"
"I... don't know," she admitted. "Mmmph."
She liked this. She liked this more than she could articulate, and for some reason, he cared. For some reason, it made Voldemort swell up inside of her to think that she liked it, that his cock was eliciting those kinds of moans, that he'd caused that strong of a climax. She did worship him, just like he wanted everyone to do. Suddenly he was coming inside of her, clenching her hips and gritting his teeth and letting out a feral roar as white-hot pleasure swept over him.
"Bellatrix," he heard himself whisper before he could catch himself. Finally he gulped and shut his eyes and listened to her frantic breathing against the blankets. He pulled himself out of her and felt a stream of his seed follow. He shivered at that and pulled his tie from her wrists, pushing her gently until she lay on her back. He reached for his wand and quickly siphoned and cleaned between her legs. Then he noticed that half her face and one shoulder had been badly rug burned by the brocade coverlet. He must have been positively drilling her against the blankets, he realised, but she hadn't complained in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact.
"Episkey," he said quietly, and the spell quickly healed up the scuffs as she murmured her thanks. She stared at him for a moment, finally averting her eyes as she asked in a hoarse voice,
"My Lord, may I get you some water?"
He scoffed quietly and said in far too forgiving a tone, "Yes, Bellatrix, you may have some water. Get me one, too. Put your nightgown on; I'll meet you in the kitchen."
"Yes, Master." She scurried off the bed, doing a fine job of masking the way he knew she must be sore and achy between her unpractised legs. But she was happy, too, he could tell. As she pulled on her skimpy nightgown, she flashed him a little smile that told him everything he needed to know. She was grateful for this servitude. Being the one to satisfy him, to bring him carnal happiness, made her feel important. Far more importantly, it made her feel like she was serving him properly. He could read all that in the flash of her eyes, in the way her full pout had become a peaceful smile. He just chewed hard upon his bottom lip and nodded once toward her, turning and starting to get dressed.
He pulled on his underwear and trousers, then tucked and buttoned his shirt. He pulled up his suspenders and pulled on his jacket and shoes, and finally he stared at his black tie in his hand. He remembered the way she'd left a hair ribbon in his suite at the Savoy. He still wasn't sure whether she'd forgotten it or left it on purpose. He didn't care, really. He liked to touch it sometimes.
He swallowed hard and left the tie sitting on the pillow where it seemed like she'd been sleeping. He wasn't sure why he didn't leave it on the dresser, or take it out to the kitchen, or just put it back on. But he left it on her bed, and he walked briskly from the bedroom.
In the kitchen, he wordlessly accepted a cut-glass tumbler of water from her and swigged the water down. She dragged her thumb over the rim of her own empty glass and stared down into it as she asked,
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Master?"
He carefully considered what he was going to say next. He cleared his throat at last and informed her,
"I have to continue to lay low for the time being. My days are dull; my nights needn't be. I should like tomorrow to go listen to some music and drink cocktails. At the Savoy."
It wasn't a question or an invitation; it was a statement. And he hadn't asked her to go dancing. He wanted to drink and sit with her. That was all. She smiled down into her glass a little as she murmured,
"Don't worry, Master. I know it isn't a date."
"No, it isn't," he snapped, but he set his glass down on the butcher block counter and seized hers from her. Once his hands were free, he put them on either side of her face, feeling the soft skin of her cheeks beneath his fingers as he realised he'd fully intended on never touching her here. She stared up at him, wide-eyed with hope and gratitude, and it was too much. He kissed her, a little harder than he'd done the night before, and he felt the vibration of her moan in response. That made his fingers tighten on her face, and when his tongue started to tangle with hers, he sighed with a low buzz starting somewhere in the bottom of his chest.
She tasted perfect - sweet and spicy at once. She smelled perfect, like sex mingling with innocence. She felt soft and hard at the same time. She was a rebel, a snarky misanthropist with a bad attitude. She was his most unquestioning, most thankful servant.
But tomorrow wouldn't be a date, Voldemort reassured himself, bringing one hand to the small of her back and pressing his lips softly against hers. He kissed her again, wanting more of her, promising himself that she was just his personal whore. Bellatrix was whimpering quietly now, for he'd pulled away a bit, and he thought he needed to stop before they wound up spending the whole night with her wrapped in his arms. That wouldn't do.
"Thank you for the water," he said meaningfully, stepping back from her and pulling out his wand. He took down his wards and said over his shoulder, "I'll ward it back up from the outside, more strongly this time."
"Thank you, My Lord." Bellatrix bowed her head a little and then asked carefully, "Where shall I meet you tomorrow, and what time?"
"Eight o'clock," he said simply. "In the hotel's cabaret."
"Very good, Master. I shall be on time. Dressed properly." She smiled demurely again, and it took far too much effort not to stride back into the kitchen and kiss her one more time. He remembered the tie on her bed and wondered if he ought to go fetch it. Instead he just nodded and said in a voice that sounded too gentle to his own ears,
"Goodnight, Miss Black."
"Goodnight, My Lord," she replied. He unlocked the flat's door and stepped out into the corridor, starting to cast all manner of spells to ward the place up. He stared at the brass C on her doorway and shut his eyes, Disapparating from where he stood. He didn't need another hour's walk just now. He needed sleep.
Chapter Managemen