Voldemort always felt like a complete and utter moron wearing tuxedo robes. He'd grown up in an orphanage, after all; Hogwarts school robes had been the fanciest attire he'd owned for years. Now he stared at himself in the mirror in his suite at Malfoy Manor and thought that not only did he look foolish, but he also looked profoundly old.

Creating Horcruxes had aged him considerably, he knew, but he'd never felt old until now. He was forty-two; he'd be forty-three in December. But somehow he looked older than that to his own eye. His hair, once dark and thick, was thinning and retreating back from his forehead. There were streaks of grey in it. When he let his scruff grow in, it was more grey than black. He had wrinkles around his eyes, and around his lips, and he frowned now to observe all those things about himself.

It was time to go. He didn't want to be anywhere near the first one to arrive at the wedding, but he also didn't want to make a scene by being catastrophically late. So he strode out of his suite, out to the Apparition Point, and he Disapparated. The Malfoys had already gone on ahead, he knew. They wanted to be early; their son Lucius was on the Slytherin Quidditch team, as had been the recently graduated groom, Thoren Bulstrode. Lucius was promised to marry Narcissa Malfoy, who was two years younger than him. Voldemort wondered just how that marriage would work out.

The Bulstrode home was grand, a Yorkshire manor that was far better suited for hosting a Pureblood wedding than the tiny Mulciber estate in Surrey. Voldemort walked between the floating lanterns leading from the Apparition point outside the garden gate to the front doors of the manor. It was all twinkling and enchanting, and he sighed. He despised maudlin events like this. But it was important for him to come, for networking purposes. He had needed to go literally beg Cygnus Black III for money. Whilst Thoren Bulstrode's uncle and Annia Mulciber's cousin were Death Eaters, the direct family of those being married were not.

His invitation had read Tom Riddle.

And so it was important for him to come to stupid, silly events like this one and coordinate with new people, to show his face, to show how grand and elegant he was. There were still those who believed that the Half-Blood Tom Riddle had no place in Pureblood society, much less at the top of it. It was up to Voldemort to prove them wrong, and he felt like he needed to do so quickly.

He walked into the manor and was escorted into a ballroom by a House-Elf. He immediately set to work talking. He spoke with the father of the bride, thanking him for the invitation and reminding him that he believed Pureblood marriages were the most sacred and wondrous union that existed in wizardkind. He spoke with the parents of the groom, congratulating them on their son's marriage and telling them that he appreciated the Bulstrode family's spacious and beautiful home, that they were shining examples of Pureblood life. He spoke with the grandparents of the bride and groom, with aunts and uncles, and then at last the ceremony was about to begin and everyone was meant to take their seats.

And then he saw her.

Bellatrix Black, wearing a caped black floor-length gown in silk that moved like water. There she was, standing there with her curls cascading down over her shoulders, obviously tamed with Sleekeazy's. There she was, her lips painted burgundy and her eyes lined black. She was a gothic goddess tonight, and Voldemort found himself speechless. She stared at him from where she sat with her family, and she just smiled a little. Her sisters were arguing about something. Her parents were chatting animatedly, smiling at one another. But Bellatrix had her eyes locked onto Lord Voldemort, and she just smiled a little.

He curled his lips up at her, knowing that if anyone were watching, he'd look like a fool.

"Hello, there, sir."

Voldemort snapped his face to the side to see Abraxas Malfoy take a seat beside him with his wife, Nadeen, and his son Lucius. Abraxas followed the place where Voldemort's gaze had gone, to Bellatrix, and a knowing look came over his face. He cleared his throat and asked,

"How was that Wimbourne match, sir? So sorry I missed it."

"Thank you for the tickets, Malfoy. We had a fine time despite the loss," said Voldemort.

"We," repeated Abraxas, a question in his voice. Voldemort gulped.

"Miss Black and I. I took the liberty of inviting her when she mentioned at tea that she was a Stinger."

"Ah! Well, I'm glad you had a good time, sir," said Abraxas, smiling crookedly. Voldemort wanted to scold him for prying, but the ceremony began. Fortunately, it was a brief handfasting. Each parent of the bride and groom did a brief reading from a historical writing on wizarding love. Then everyone sang an old song about husbands and wives, the same one sung at every real wizarding wedding.

"May you always keep your arms wrapped tightly round one another. Filled with love and filled with patience, may you always guard each other…"

Then their hands were bound up with ribbon that was enchanted by the Ministry wizard performing the ceremony, and with their hands clasped and tied together, Annia and Thoren kissed and were declared man and wife. Witches sobbed through it all, including Druella Black. Narcissa and Andromeda Black seemed heavily burdened by emotion. But Bellatrix looked completely unaffected. She clapped along with the others, and then Voldemort noticed she'd varnished her nails shiny black.

She was lovely, he thought. Why was she so lovely? It was only meant to be dinner and tea. Dinner and tea with a cloying teenager in exchange for a large donation. That was it. That was all it was meant to be.

That was all it was, he told himself as the bride and groom walked down the aisle made between the two sections of chairs. That was all it was. Dinner and tea. And a Wimbourne Wasps match. But that was all. She was just a pesky teenaged girl. She was just an obnoxious little hanger-on. She was just part of a bargain.

Still, as he stood in the transformed ballroom, he helped himself to an inordinately large amount of firewhisky. He didn't bother networking now. He just stood and watched as others milled about and talked. He should be spending his time hinting that he needed donations, he thought. He should be spending his time asking for support.

Instead, all he could do was drink and drink as he watched Bellatrix Black dance with one young wizard after another. She even danced with the groom. Even he had a go at her. Rodolphus Lestrange danced with her twice in a row, and that was too much for Voldemort. Setting his glass down and feeling a little tipsy, he strode up to the dance floor, to where Bellatrix stood laughing with Rodolphus - another young aspirational Death Eater, Voldemort knew - and he jutted out his hand like an overeager schoolboy.

"Miss Black," he said, far too loudly, "May I have this next dance?"

"My Lord." Bellatrix smiled up at him as Rodolphus moved stealthily away. She gave him a toothy grin then and admitted, "I didn't think you were going to ask me, and I certainly wasn't brave enough to ask you."

"Why wouldn't I ask you?" Voldemort pulled Bellatrix into a dancing stance, putting his right hand beneath her cape and feeling bare back there, and then wrapping his left hand around her right one. He began to sway with her, and he reminded her, "I told you the other day I was going to dance with you at this wedding?"

"My Lord, have you been drinking?" Bellatrix asked carefully, and Voldemort shrugged as he admitted,

"Just a little. Why? Is it that obvious?"

"It's a little obvious." Bellatrix laughed a bit. "It doesn't matter. It's a wedding. Half the people here are smashingly drunk. You're better off than most."

"And you?" asked Voldemort. "Have you been drinking?"

"Just a little." Her eyes were shining, he saw then. He peered into her mind with gentle Legilimency and saw three glasses of red wine downed. He pulled back out, and she frowned a little.

"Were you just…"

"In your mind? Yes. Sorry. Should've asked, probably. I never ask." Voldemort smirked, and Bellatrix curled up her lips at him.

"I like how powerful you are, sir. It amazes me."

"Does it?" He felt a little breathless then, and his steps stumbled just a little. He shut his eyes and felt a very sudden urge, something he couldn't ignore, something he couldn't shove out of his brain.

"I need to go out into the corridor. Out onto the lawn," he corrected, and Bellatrix scowled.

"Are you all right? Do you need some air?" she asked.

He needed some her, he thought. He kept dancing with her, and as he stared right into her eyes, he whispered,

"You're a good dance partner, but I need to go get a breath of air on the lawn, Miss Black. Now."

"Yes, My Lord." She was obedient. He liked that. He liked her obedience. It made his heart accelerate, the way she talked to him. Yes, My Lord. He let go of her and walked very quickly away, leaving her there on the dance floor.

Bellatrix walked slowly out of the Bulstrode manor and onto the lawn, which was covered with floating lanterns. She looked around until she saw him, standing there in the glow of the lanterns, his face looking more chiseled and sharper than ever in the warm golden glow of the lantern light. Bellatrix approached him, slowly, glancing around and realising they were entirely alone out here. Why was that? Had he Confounded everyone else to go back inside, or did no one else have interest in being out here?

Did it matter?

"My Lord." Bellatrix stepped up to him and bowed her head. It didn't feel like enough. She descended to a knee, right there in her gown, genuflecting before him and then rising again. She stared up at him and promised him, "I'll be a good soldier for you someday, if you let me do it."

"I'll allow it. Have no doubt." Voldemort stared straight into her eyes.

"You needed air," Bellatrix noted. "Too much firewhisky?"

"No." He closed the gap between them and put his hands on either side of Bellatrix's face. He tipped his head and asked, almost cheekily, "Will you slap me?"

For kissing her, he meant. Bellatrix's heart began to race, and she shook her head seriously. Voldemort lowered his face to hers and brushed his lips against Bellatrix's. It felt like she'd been zapped by a spell. She grasped at the front of his tuxedo robes, wanting so much more. More. More. She leaned up, pushing up onto her tip toes, and Voldemort's hands tightened on her cheeks. He kissed her again, harder this time. The third time, his tongue crept between her lips and brushed along hers, and Bellatrix moaned like an absolute harlot into his mouth.

"Someone's coming." Voldemort pulled back and away, stumbling back a few steps. Bellatrix whirled around to see the Malfoy family coming down the front steps of the Bulstrode manor.

"Heading home so early, Malfoy?" Voldemort called casually to Abraxas, and he answered,

"Lucius here decided to drink underage, sir. He's in serious trouble with us, of course, and we're getting him home. Checking out early, I'm afraid. Oh. Hello, Miss Black."

He smirked a little at the way Bellatrix was standing so near Voldemort, all along in the lantern-lit lawn, and Bellatrix suddenly wondered how badly her lipstick was smudged. She got her answer when she saw Voldemort pull a handkerchief from the inside of his tuxedo robes and dab at his own lips. Bellatrix gulped with embarrassment, and once the Malfoys had gone, she whispered,

"I should go back inside."

"Dinner and tea," said Voldemort quietly, and Bellatrix raised her eyes to him.

"Yes. It was meant to just be dinner and tea," she said, but he shook his head and told her,

"I should like to invite you for another dinner. Another tea. Dinner on Monday. Tea on Wednesday. You're only home for a brief summer, so…"

He wanted to spend time with her. Bellatrix's eyes welled at that. She nodded fiercely.

"Dinner on Monday. What time?"

"Seven o'clock," said Voldemort, and Bellatrix turned up half her mouth.

"Seven on Monday. Dinner. Thank you, My Lord."

She turned to go back into the manor, and as she did, Voldemort called after her,

"Bellatrix."

She whirled, for he'd called her Miss Black up until now. He tucked his handkerchief away, the one smeared with her lipstick, and he said,

"You were a very fine dance partner. Perhaps we shall dance again sometime."

'Perhaps we shall, My Lord," said Bellatrix, her heart fluttering as she turned to go inside.

Author's Note: Is this the fluffiest Bellamort fic I'm ever going to write? Yes. Definitely. Do I care? Nope.

Side note: If you'd like to attack me on a personal level, please do so in a PM so I can at least respond, instead of doing it in a guest review that I have to delete and can't respond to. That's basically harassment. Please and thanks.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! I know this one is SuperFloof, but whatever; I'm having fun writing it.