Voldemort lay in his bed three nights later staring at his ceiling and wondering what Bellatrix was doing. Sleeping, probably. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine that, tried to imagine her lying in her bed at her parents' house, curled up and comfortable, breathing slowly in slumber.

Suddenly he found himself dragging his way out of bed. He needed liquor. He needed to drink right now. She'd managed to invade his consciousness so completely that he could scarcely think straight, let alone actually sleep, and he wanted to be profoundly drunk right now. He stalked out of bed in his black flannel pyjamas and out into his sitting-room, over to his drinks cart where there were crystal bottles of various liquors. Voldemort picked up the bottle of firewhisky, his go-to beverage, but then set it down when he decided that he didn't feel much like burning his throat tonight. He picked up a bottle of gin instead and pulled out the crystal stopper, pouring a generous serving into a tumbler. He stopped up the gin again and uncorked a bottle of tonic water, drizzling it into his glass. He didn't have any lime. He could Transfigure the whole lemon he had on the cart into a lime with relative ease, but he frankly didn't care much about it, and he'd made this drink awfully strong. He picked up the gin and tonic, if one could call something so unbalanced an actual cocktail, and he drank from it. He spluttered a little; it was about eighty percent gin. But he diligently chugged the drink down, and then he made himself another, and then a third.

By the time he'd had his third mostly-gin-and-not-very-much-tonic, Voldemort's head was swimming. He stumbled over to his brown velvet sofa and collapsed down onto it, tipping his head back and thinking of what it had been like to be with Bellatrix.

She had been so unfathomably beautiful. Her body, lithe and lean and deliciously young, had been as wondrous as rain in a drought. He'd consumed her with his eyes, seeing her touch her own breasts and fondle herself between her legs. It had made him feel powerful, standing there commanding her to do it and watching her for his own pleasure. But she'd found pleasure, too. He'd watched her come. She had reached her peak. And it had been absolutely marvelous to behold.

She'd made him finish in no time at all, circling her hips against his. She'd made him come inside of her and had left him panting above her in only a moment. Somehow, he wasn't even angry about that. He'd enjoyed himself so much, and found himself wanting more so very badly… He was craving her. He was craving her back, just as the prophecy commanded him to do.

Ah, the prophecy, whose existence she appeared to have deciphered. She was indeed a brilliant witch, Voldemort thought, and she was certainly intelligent enough to figure out that if Voldemort kept saying the same things alongside spontaneously bizarre behaviour, there must be an explanation. And her mind had concluded that a prophecy made sense. Well. She was right, but he couldn't let her know that. She couldn't know that the reason he was holding her so near to him right now was because Abraxas Malfoy had come into his office with a Prophecy Record of words delivered to him by Cassandra Vablatsky about the Dark Lord himself. Words spelling doom if Bellatrix drifted too far away, words warning him to keep her very close. Bellatrix mustn't know about that. So Voldemort had shaken his head at her and insisted there was no prophecy.

Now, right now, he was drunk.

His head was absolutely mired in gin right now, and he stared at the ceiling of his sitting room where he sat on the sofa and fingered his wand carefully. Should he do it? No. She was sleeping. She wouldn't want to come to him right now. Oh, what did that matter, he scolded himself? Her wants and preferences were entirely inconsequential; she was his servant. He shoved his left sleeve back and jammed the point of his wand against his Dark Mark. He shut his eyes and whispered in a slur,

"Morsmordre. Bellatrix…"

He pictured himself sheathed within her. Tight. She'd been so warm and wet and young. Voldemort licked his lip, flushing from his cheeks down through his chest and stomach as he thought of her. He started to go a little hard, imagining her touching her breasts. His breath came heavy and thick where he sat, and he let out a little noise of want as he squirmed a bit on the sofa. He began to imagine all the other things he could do to her, the ways he could touch her, the ways she could pleasure him. Soon enough he had his hand down the waistband of his trousers and was stroking himself a little, whispering her name into the darkness. This fantasising went on for entirely too long, long enough that he wound up with a genuine insistent, throbbing erection, and then suddenly there was a knock on the door that led to the corridor.

Voldemort jolted to attention. He scowled down at his pyjama trousers. She'd see that he was hard, he knew. There was no masking it. He aimed his wand into his bedroom and hissed frantically,

"Accio dressing-gown."

His black velvet dressing-gown came flying out of his bedroom, and as he caught it and threw it on, tying it tightly round his waist. He rushed over to the door that led from his sitting room to the corridor, moving so quickly in his intoxicated state that he tripped and nearly fell. He cleared his throat as he righted himself, and he pulled the door open. Bellatrix was standing there in a traveling cloak over what appeared to be a simple white nightgown, and she coughed into her elbow.

"You've come from bed," Voldemort said, noting the obvious, "and you're unwell."

Bellatrix sniffled. "It's just a head cold, Master. I took Pepperup Potion a few hours ago that's helped quite a lot. I'm waiting for it to pass before I carry out the Muggle attack mission. I do apologise for being ill; is there something you needed?"
His stomach sank. He'd brought her here to pound her into the sheets. But she had a head cold. She probably felt rotten. He frowned and said to her,

"Come inside, will you?"

"Of course, My… My… ah-choo!" Bellatrix sneezed into the handkerchief she carried, and she apologised frantically again. Voldemort suddenly found that he didn't much care if Bellatrix passed some disease onto him. He rather wanted to see her right now, head cold be damned… sex be damned. He brought her into his sitting room and offered,

"How about some tea with honey and lemon, hm?"

"Oh, thank you, Master, but I couldn't trouble you." Bellatrix coughed roughly a few times again, touching at her forehead. Voldemort scowled at how much discomfort she was experiencing, and he insisted,

"It is no trouble." He went to his drinks cart and bent to the second shelf. Suddenly his erection was gone, and he felt a bit more clear-headed than he'd been before. Certainly, he wasn't too drunk to make her tea. He took a teacup and saucer from the shelf, opened a box of teabags of sturdy black tea, and put the bag into the cup. He used his wand to fill the cup with water, heated it, doled out some honey from its jar, and used Diffindo to slice up the lemon atop the drinks cart. Then he Summoned some Antitussive Draught from his Potions Stores, along with HeadEase and Decongesting Decoction, and he put it all on a small tray. Bellatrix watched in wonder, still coughing and sneezing every now and then, as Voldemort walked over to her. He smirked a little and sat on the sofa, announcing,

"I'm quite drunk, just so you know."

"Are you? I would not have known," Bellatrix laughed, triggering more coughs. She apologised again, but Voldemort handed her one potion at a time and made her dose herself with them. Antitussive Draught for the cough, HeadEase for her obvious headache, Decongesting Decoction to help with the sniffling and sneezing. Bellatrix gratefully took the potions. She'd already taken Pepperup Potion, which was standard for colds. Now she sipped at the tea Voldemort had brewed for her, and she flashed him a very grateful little smile.

"Now I can hear all about what it is that brought me here," she told him. "Is it something to do with my mission to kill Muggles? I've got a good plan of attack, Master. I've got this little town in the Midlands I'm going to hit. My plan is to make it look like a car bomb went off - that's rather a thing these days, you know - and destroy a whole row of shops. Obviously, the Ministry of Magic will know it wasn't a car bomb, and they'll suspect a Death Eater. It should go very well. I'm excited."

"You're excited." Voldemort bowed his head and raised his eyes, watching her sip her tea. Her cough seemed to have let up, and her voice was less stuffed up now. Good. The potions were helping. He gulped hard, feeling an odd sensation toward her that he couldn't quite pin down. He couldn't tell her that he'd brought her here for sex. That felt… off, somehow. He chomped his lip and nodded. "You're excited about this mission because you are a very good soldier, Bellatrix. You are… you are my finest soldier. It's why I told your father and Rodolphus that you couldn't be married. I need you. I need… I have to have you unchained, unattached. You must be wholly devoted to my cause; there is no room for you to be tied down in marriage."

Bellatrix looked incredibly confused all of a sudden. She sipped at her tea and tipped her head, and she murmured,

"Forgive me, Master, but I thought you said those things to them as an excuse. You said you had your reasons for me not to marry Rodolphus, but I didn't think those were the real reasons."

Voldemort blinked. She was right. Those weren't the real reasons. That had been an excuse. And yet, it had been a very good excuse, because it was true, wasn't it? He did value her service almost above all others' combined. His mouth fell open a little, and he whispered,

"It may have been an excuse, Bella, but it is the truth just the same."

She stared down into her teacup, and he reached into her mind with Legilimency. He could feel what she was thinking. She was wondering what the real reason was for her not marrying Rodolphus. Why, really, had Lord Voldemort called off her wedding? She trusted him, of course, but her curiosity was piqued anyway. Voldemort pulled out of her head and pursed his lips.

"I… can not… will not… tell you any more than I already have," he said. "Suffice it to say that your marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange would be good for no one. He'll be very happy with Agnes Selwyn, I've no doubt."

"Indeed." Bellatrix's eyes watered a little as she scoffed gently and said, "Agnes is home for the Easter holiday next week. There's an engagement party for her and Rodolphus. My father says I must go, in order to show goodwill between the Black and Lestrange families. So I shall go and try not to make a fool of myself at the party celebrating the engagement of my former fiancé."

Voldemort cleared his throat, feeling awkward, though not half as awkward as Bellatrix was bound to feel at that party. He considered things for a long moment. The prophecy said he needed to keep her close, that she needed to be solely his. Did that mean publicly his? He wondered. He sucked on his bottom lip and finally asked,

"How would you care to attend that engagement party on the arm of the Dark Lord?"

Bellatrix just stared at him, nearly dropping her empty cup of tea. She breathed heavily for a moment and set her teacup down before shaking her head.

"I couldn't possibly -"

"Fine. I shall command you," said Voldemort calmly, feeling drunk again. His head was swimming now. He blinked and reached to hold Bellatrix's cheek in his hand. "You must attend that party as my date, Bella, escorted into the ballroom of Castle Lestrange by the Dark Lord and held by him all night. These are your orders, given to you by your master. Will you obey?"

She seemed breathless, but she nodded and whispered, "Yes. Thank you, My Lord."

"I brought you here to fuck you," he said very plainly then, and Bellatrix's face stayed still and calm. She nodded, and Voldemort stood on unsteady feet, dragging her up with him.

This time, the sex was quick and manic on the edge of his bed, with her bent over and hardly wet. He was behind her, genuinely fucking her, jerking his hips into her, and it wasn't until he'd spilled himself inside of her that he realised he'd done it all wrong. He stared down at her clothed back and arms, heaving from exertion, and realised she hadn't come. He frowned at that. She blew hair out of her eyes and he thought about how he hadn't kissed her through the whole thing, how he hadn't seen her face. He scowled as he pulled out of her, and he muttered,

"It'll be better next time. Sorry."

"Why are you apologising, My Lord?" Bellatrix huffed, yanking up the knickers that had been shoved down round her ankles. She seemed perfectly content. Well, of course she was content. She worshipped him. She turned to face Voldemort, and he grasped her face in his hands. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, and he shook his head down at her.

"You didn't finish," he noted, and she scoffed a little. She shrugged and insisted,

"I don't mind. Any touch from you, My Lord, is enough to -"

"Stop that." He shook his head and bent to kiss her roughly. She squealed against how hard he was kissing her. He finally wrenched his mouth away and mumbled, "You'll finish next time. And the next, and the time after that."

She seemed dizzy at those words, but she just nodded and whispered,

"Yes, Master."

He sent her on her way after that, kissing her goodby against the wall for a very long time. It felt like forever, that kiss, and it was a deep and passionate dig into her that felt delightfully intimate. Pressing her up onto the wall with his body felt good. Her hands on his head felt good. She felt good.

"Thank you for the potions and the tea," Bellatrix murmured, and Voldemort realised he was almost certainly going to catch a cold from her. He didn't care. How could he possibly care about that right now? He just nodded and watched her leave, feeling a strange ache in his stomach once she'd gone.

Yes, he thought. He would take her to Rodolphus' engagement party. And he would let people see her on his arm. The prophecy had not specified anything about privacy, about keeping her close and making her his but not telling anyone about it. So he would walk her into that ballroom on his arm, and he she would be solely his right there in front of everyone.

And he was rather looking forward to it.

Author's Note: Oh, my. Do I sense a Possessive PDA Voldemort on the horizon? Mwah hahaha. Raise your hand if you're excited for THAT. :} Thank you so very much for reading and a HUGE thank you for REVIEWING. Feedback is treasured like gold.