November 1972

Blaize Bailey

Voldemort stared out the window of his library, nursing his second gin and tonic of the night. He watched the spot in the drizzly garden where Bellatrix always appeared when she Apparated here. He's summoned her to Blaize Bailey via her Dark Mark as soon as he was sure his potion had turned out correctly. She'd been having dinner with her sister and new brother-in-law. Voldemort didn't care; he was in no mood to wait.

She appeared in the garden as a black blur in the cloudy night, disappearing from view as she hurried toward the house. Voldemort sipped at his gin and tonic as he heard the door open and shut downstairs.

"In the library," he called simply, and then he heard Bellatrix's feet pattering on the wide, winding stairs. Her footsteps were light and quick coming down the corridor, and then she appeared in the doorway of the dimly-lit library. Voldemort beckoned her inside, wincing a bit to himself at the awful sight of how her bruises had gone blacker than ever.

"My Lord," Bellatrix breathed, bowing her head and making the injury more obvious than ever. He contemplated apologising for pulling her away from her dinner, but she'd know it was a lie, so he didn't bother. Instead he sipped on his drink again and then mused,

"Most bruises and superficial injuries are quite easily with a bit of butterfly weed balm. At worst they need healing spells or potions. Very obviously, the magically-induced injury you suffered is not going away with ordinary measures."

"I am sorry, My Lord," Bellatrix murmured. It had to have been the hundredth time she'd apologised for the black eye and bruised cheekbone. Voldemort put his lips into a line and snapped,

"It's a damned battle wound, Bellatrix. I've half a mind to let you wear it with honour instead of fixing it." He watched her lips curl up a little, and he set his gin and tonic down on the small table before him. He picked up the small red glass bottle he'd set down earlier, and he held it up to show Bellatrix. "This is Melioris Potion. After some research with a few old potions texts, I was able to track down the old recipe. If it doesn't work, I'm not sure what will, but seeing as the text specifically mentioned Blasting Curses, I think you'll be all right. I don't brew potions often, but once upon a time, I was the best potioneer in Slytherin."

"I believe it, My Lord," Bellatrix smiled. "I'm sure you were magnificent in all your subjects."

He could have told her about how he'd been Head Boy, how Horace Slughorn had been convinced of his future success. But that had been the life of Tom Riddle, and that life was over now. Voldemort cleared his throat delicately and said,

"I'm confident it will work, but with a strong potion come strong side effects."

Bellatrix looked mildly alarmed. "What sort of side effects, Master?"

He picked up his gin and tonic and swigged the rest of it down, his head swimming a little as he told her what lay in store for them both. "The Melioris Potion will send your body's healing and well-being capabilities into overdrive, so you'll experience a very high energy level, an elevated and euphoric mood, and probably hypersexuality."

Bellatrix's dark eyes went round and her cheeks went pink. "I apologise in advance if I make a fool of myself."

"Don't worry, Bella," Voldemort smirked. "I mean to keep you in line. And neither of us has anything substantial planned for tomorrow. Here. Drink the whole dose, then."

Bellatrix approached him and took the little red bottle from his hand. She pulled out the stopper and paused, staring down into the Melioris Potion.

"Thank you, My Lord," she said rather reverently. "You are far more merciful than I deserve."

Voldemort felt an uncomfortably strong emotion toward her then. He didn't like her face bruised up, so he was fixing it. It really was as simple as that. He cleared his threat. "Drink the potion, Bella."

She did, knocking it back and pulling a face at the bitter flavour. She set the red glass bottle back down as she spluttered a little. Voldemort walked over to his rolling drinks cart and put some ice and water into a tumbler for her. She drank it gratefully, and once she'd cleared the bitterness from her mouth, she asked,

"When can I expect the side effects, My Lord?"

"No idea," he admitted. He took a step toward Bellatrix and, wanting a better look at the injury he was trying to heal, murmured, "Lumos."

The tip of his wand illuminated, and as he held it up, Bellatrix's milky face was bathed in a gently pulsing, bluish light. Voldemort couldn't help but smile a bit then. He watched as the awful purple and grey splotches began to fade. On instinct, he brushed his knuckles along Bellatrix's forehead, down around her eye socket and over her cheek.

"It's working," he said softly, in far too tender a voice. It must have been the gin and tonic making him touch her and speak to her this carefully, he thought. Yes, he thought as he lowered his lips, he'd had entirely too much gin. He'd made his drinks too strong. That was what he told himself as he touched his lips to Bellatrix's cheek, eliciting a little whimper from her.

Her breath quickened a little, and that only got worse when Voldemort said, "Nox," and set his wand down on the table. He pulled Bellatrix closer, and even in the dim light, he could see that the terrible bruising was almost completely healed. He pushed a curl from her face and said, "Much better."

Outside, the light drizzle from earlier had turned into an abruptly arrived downpour. Frigid rain lashed the windows, and Voldemort's eyebrows went up at the sudden rain.

"I want to go play in it," said a quiet voice from beside him. Voldemort frowned down at Bellatrix, who stared at him with wide eyes and dilated pupils. She giggled softly and said again, "I want to go out into the rain. Please, My Lord? Please?"

There were the side effects, then. Voldemort rolled his eyes and said with all the patience he could muster,

"It's nearly winter, Bellatrix. That rain is freezing cold."

"I don't mind, My Lord!" she called over her shoulder, starting to dash from the library. Voldemort knew he couldn't overwhelm the side effects of this potion; the text he'd found had warned about the symptoms' strength. He followed Bellatrix with smooth, long strides as she trotted happily through the corridor and down the stairs. She laughed as she flung the heavy front door wide open, and Voldemort stood in the threshold, saying in an almost paternal voice,

"Mind the stairs, then."

She paid him no heed, merrily leaping down the steps and immediately twirling in a circle with her arms outstretched. She tipped her pretty face up to the heavens and laughed as the cold rain caresses her skin.

She looked very beautiful just now, Voldemort thought. She was young and fearless, and she looked that way now. She raked her fingers through her wet curls and then started to touch her own breasts through the thin material of her knee-length black dress. Her fingers played with her nipples, which were visibly hard even in the dim light afforded by the lamps outside. When she moaned into the rain, Voldemort gulped and gripped the door jamb. When one hand started to edge up the bottom hem of her dress, he tried to call her name and failed.

So he just watched as she stood there in the freezing rain, shivering and touching herself with one hand on her own breast and the other between her legs. Voldemort felt his cock go absolutely rigid in his trousers, and his hand tightened so hard on the doorway that it hurt.

"Mmm… oh, My Lord." Bellatrix lowered her face to look at him, and in the low light he could see the way her full lips were parted, the way her heavily-lidded eyes were half-closed, the way her chest heaved. She had one hand down the front of her knickers, and she might have looked obscene and ungraceful to anyone else. But for Voldemort, it was too much to endure.

His cheeks were burning hot as he stepped out into the rain, and the cold water was a sweet relief. He ran quickly down the steps and picked Bellatrix up in one smooth motion, catching her under her short legs with one hand and resting the other on her back.

She yelped with surprise and laughed like a maniac as he carried her back up the steps. Her fingers left her own body and went up to Voldemort's cheeks. He said nothing and stared straight ahead. Once they were back inside the foyer, he knew they were both dripping water everywhere, but he couldn't care. That was easily cleaned up.

He could take her upstairs and play with her for a while, Voldemort thought. He could make her use her mouth on him. He could do the same to her. Then he decided there was time enough for all of that later. Right now he wanted her, plainly and simply.

So he slammed the front door shut and set Bellatrix on the ground, backing her up as her fingers flew to the placket of his trousers. She panted up at him as she pulled her knickers down and tossed them away. She shivered as she backed up against the door. Rainwater poured past her jaw, down her neck, and into the swell of her breasts. It was too much. Voldemort wrenched his trousers down a little and seized Bellatrix by the waist.

The next few moments seemed to fly by. Suddenly her legs and arms were wrapped around him and her voice was keening as he pumped himself into her. The front door banged a little every time he pushed her against it, and for some reason Voldemort quite liked the sound. He soaked in the feel of her chest smashed against his, of her fingers between his shoulder blades and her ankles crossed behind his back. When he came, it was warm and pleasant and too brief. When she came a moment later, she tipped her head back against the door and moaned over and over,

"My Lord… My Lord…"

When he finally set her down, he decided he was going to milk her side effects for all they were worth. He'd use a Girding Potion for himself if he had to. He'd take her on the rug in the upstairs corridor. He'd take her on his office desk. He'd take her in their bed.

Then he realised she would always let him do all of those things. She didn't need to be giddy from a potion to want him; she always wanted him. And, anyway, as she stood with her back against the door staring up at him, he could tell the euphoria from the Melioris Potion had been extremely short-lived. The crazed look in her gaze was gone. Fortunately, so were the bruises.

"All better," Voldemort murmured, running his fingers over her damp face. She smiled and pressed her palm against his shirt, which was soaked through.

"Thank you, My Lord," she said. Her eyes, no longer wild, now bore something so deep and significant that Voldemort almost had to look away. He swallowed hard, took a step back from her, and noted,

"You could do with a warm shower after that, probably. We both could. You use the one down here."

He gestured down the corridor to the main level bathroom, and he wordlessly headed up the stairs.

December, 1972

Kinnloch Hourn, Scotland

"When do you suppose he'll arrive, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked. She brushed some snow from her heavy velvet cloak and wished to herself that they'd been able to meet with their visitor somewhere other than the wintry Scottish Highlands. But she understood; Lord Voldemort could not show his home in Blaize Bailey to an untrusted wizard, and nobody else but Bellatrix knew of the time travel.

"If he can follow instructions, he should be arriving by Portkey any moment now." Voldemort shut his eyes and tipped his head back a bit, letting the snow fall into his greying hair. He seemed to be breathing in the winter, savouring it, and Bellatrix could not help but stare. Then he lowered his face and stepped away from the stone wall against which he'd been standing. He jerked his chin down the narrow path that led from the small settlement. "Here he is now."

Bellatrix watched as a wizened old man using a walking stick made his way up the rocky path toward them. She studied the man's face and had to stifle a gasp. Forty-eight years of time had etched countless deep lines upon him. His eyes had sunken in a little. His hair had gone thin and white. But this was most definitely the same Aloysius da Chioggia she'd met in Venice.

"Signore Riddle," da Chioggia greeted as he approached sounding out of breath. He stopped before them, leaned heavily onto his walking stick, and pushed up a white eyebrow as he mused, "But you don't go by that name anymore. Signorina Black…" He turned his attention to Bellatrix, his dark eyes glinting as he smiled and nodded. "As lovely as I remember."

"How did you know who I was?" Voldemort demanded without any greeting. Da Chioggia shrugged.

"When I met a young man in the 1940s - a young man called Tom Riddle - I admit I was puzzled. But that young man acted and carried himself just like another Tom Riddle I'd once known. Then that young man became Lord Voldemort and started to resemble the man whose female associate had so lovingly called him Master."

"You waited so long to contact me," Voldemort noted, and da Chioggia said wryly,

"If I'd reached out to you in the 1960s, you may have never gone back. Then who knows what might have happened? I told a lie in my letter, I'm afraid. I did find that bracelet. I found it in 1955 in a shop in Rome. I kept it and I delivered it to Miss Black's birthday party in September."

Bellatrix felt her eyebrows furrow, and she snapped, "You sent us back? Why?"

"Because, my dear signorina," da Chioggia said warmly, "it had already happened. Who am I to speculate about why it happened at all?"

Bellatrix thought back to the way she and her lord had grown so much closer in every way during their time in the past. She'd become his pet; he'd become her lover. If there was some sort of predestined reason why that had been necessary…

"You know I have to kill you." Voldemort said those words with full confidence in a flat voice. Bellatrix's eyes went wide and flicked between the two men. Da Chioggia shut his eyes and nodded, a preternatural peace coming over him.

"Sono vecchio. I am an old man," da Chioggia said, "and I do not fear death. Just the same, I put off this meeting for a reason. Si, signore. I realise that the fearsome Lord Voldemort can not have someone like me walking about with the knowledge I have. I beg you make it quick."

Voldemort cleared his throat and raised his wand. Bellatrix felt her heart race as da Chioggia shut his eyes again. The Dark Lord's wand did not shake at all as he said smoothly, "Grazie, Signor da Chioggia. Avada Kedavra."

December, 1972

Blaize Bailey

"I'll be going to bed early tonight, Bella," Voldemort said as he stepped through the threshold of his grand house. Bellatrix trotted in after him and shut the enormous door. Voldemort said over his shoulder, "I've not slept well these past few nights."

"I know, My Lord," Bellatrix said quietly. She'd noticed his insomnia by way of being awakened beside him as he tossed and turned. Whether he'd been anxious about the impending meeting with da Chioggia or whether he had another reason for not sleeping, she didn't know. It wasn't any of her business, anyway.

They stepped into the kitchen, and Voldemort began flicking his wand and murmuring a few food preparation spells. Bellatrix watched as a large tin of beef soup flew from a cupboard, opened itself, and doled itself into two bowls. Voldemort murmured a heating spell at the bowls and reached into the bread basket for a few rolls. He opened a drawer and pulled out two spoons, and he murmured,

"Don't just stand there; pour some red wine."

"Of course, Master." Bellatrix dashed to the rack of red wine bottles across the kitchen and selected a Merlot. She set the bottle to uncorking itself as she pulled two glasses from a cupboard. She followed Voldemort into the dining room and set a glass of wine beside his soup. She started to walk to the other side of the table to sit, surprised by the way her master used his wand to pull out her chair for her. All Bellatrix could do as her cheeks went hot was to whisper, "Thank you, My Lord."

"I did not relish killing him," Voldemort said suddenly, and Bellatrix paused with her spoon near her mouth. Aloysius da Chioggia, he meant. He continued, "He seemed like an intelligent and cunning man, and if I'd been able to carefully Obliviate him, he could have proven himself a useful ally. But he knew too much; he's known too much for almost fifty years."

Bellatrix's hands trembled as she asked the question that had been eating at her mind since they'd left Scotland. "Do I know too much, My Lord?"

He stared at her for a moment across the table and shook his head. He dipped his bread into his soup and said carefully. "It is not the same at all. My expectations for you and my standards of behaviour around you are unique. Whether that is wise or not, I have no interest in examining."

They ate in silence for a while then, until Bellatrix finally asked, "Do you think it was inevitable, My Lord?"

"Going back?" Voldemort Banished their empty bowls to the kitchen to wash themselves and nodded. "Yes. It would seem so. I do not wish to dwell on the subject further. Let us discuss something else."

"What did you have in mind, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked.

He shrugged and said lightly, "Christmas. Tell me about Christmas."

Bellatrix couldn't help but smirk. She sighed and leaned onto the table. "Well, I suppose I'll have to go to my Grandmother Irma's dreadful family Christmas party. This will be the first year that Narcissa's married to Lucius, so I'll have to decide whether to buy them separate gifts or a joint gift. I've no idea what Lucius might like, so -"

"A silver-nibbed self-inking quill," the Dark Lord interjected. When Bellatrix frowned at the oddly specific suggestion, Voldemort clarified, "I saw it in his mind the other day. He used to have one, but it's lost and he'd like a new one. Go to Scrivenshaft's; he'll have a good one. The next time I see Lucius, I shall Cofound him into forgetting about the quill until Christmas."

Bellatrix grinned, feeling a swell of awe and affection for her master then. "How wonderfully helpful, My Lord. Thank you."

"And you?" Voldemort drummed his fingers on the table. Bellatrix shook her head in confusion, and he rolled his eyes as he clarified, "What do you want for Christmas?"

Bellatrix gulped. Surely he didn't mean… she would never be worthy of a gift from him, after all. She fingered the ring he'd given her and realised that he'd already gifted her something very significant. Her cheeks went hot as she insisted,

"Spending time in your presence is more than I could ever -"

"Either you tell me or I retrieve it myself. Your Occlumency skills are good, but not that good," Voldemort teased. He beckoned over to her with one finger, and Bellatrix scurried around the table. She stood before his chair and tried not to gasp when his hands ran slowly up and down her ribcage. He gave her a rather serious expression given that they were discussing Christmas presents. "Tell me, Bella. Tell me what you want."

"Oh, My Lord…" Bellatrix shivered as his fingers drifted over her breasts and found the waistband of her skirt. He unzipped it down the side and the skirt fell to the floor, pooling around Bellatrix's feet. A shock of want went straight through her as Voldemort used one knuckle to tease the outside of her knickers.

"Too slow," he sighed. "Legilimens."

Suddenly Bellatrix felt him rip into her mind. She made no effort to keep him out; she let him pull out one vision of covetousness after another. The pearl-and-steel necklace in the window in Diagon Alley. The shiny black boots she'd seen a witch wearing in Borgin and Burke's. Expensive magical hair pomade to tame her wild curls. The very public manner in which she'd seen a wizard kiss a witch recently.

Voldemort scoffed as he pulled out of Bellatrix's mind.

"Is that what you want?" he asked, rising from his chair. "You want me to kiss you in front of Florean Fortescue's for the whole world to see? I'm not going to do that."

"I know, My Lord," Bellatrix said honestly, feeling a deep and unpleasant sense of embarrassment. His knuckle started teasing the outside of her knickers again, and she felt a rush of wetness there. Her master lowered his face and pulled her chin up, and then he whispered against her lips,

"There isn't anyone else. That will be enough for you."

Bellatrix moaned a little against him. She nodded, her arms snaking around his shoulders as she registered what he'd said. There was no one else.

"That is more than enough, My Lord," she assured him. He kissed her, his fingers working their way inside her knickers and fiddling with her clit. Bellatrix whimpered, her own hands going straight to the placket of his trousers. She shook as she unbuttoned the trousers and pushed them down, yanking Voldemort's shirt up. Her own blouse was still on, and suddenly they were just two mostly-clothed people fondling one another beside a dining room table.

Bellatrix ignored the awkwardness of that and let herself fall into the sensation of his fingers twisting into her, of his thumb drawing circles. She soaked in his kiss, the taste and smell of him. She pumped her hand on his firm length and thought perhaps her knees were going to give out. Suddenly Voldemort growled a little and pulled his face away from hers. He stared down at his cock, at the way her hand moved on him, and he whispered,

"Faster, Bella. Lubrico."

She felt an abrupt slickness beneath her hand as his lubrication spell took hold. His own thumb flicked more insistently against her nub as his fingers hooked and pushed. Bellatrix panted and tried to keep her hand moving as she felt herself quickly peaking.

Suddenly her knees did give out a bit, and she was dizzy as her body clamped around his fingers. Through the white-hot pleasure, she felt and tasted his kiss. His hand closed around hers and pumped on his cock a few dozen times. Voldemort pulled his mouth away and hissed through clenched teeth as he spilled himself all over both of their hands. Bellatrix moaned at the sight, still trembling from the way he'd touched her.

He cleaned them both up with a quick Tergeo and Scourgify and handed her her skirt back. As she pulled it on and zipped it, feeling oddly self-conscious, the Dark Lord tucked himself away and raked his fingers through his hair. He stepped closer to Bellatrix and brushed his thumb under her eye.

"There isn't anyone else," he said again. Bellatrix nodded.

She'd been all he'd had in Paris, in Venice, but this was different. She was living with him. She was his. And he seemed to be implying that their odd arrangement was unlike anything anyone else had with him. Bellatrix tried not to cry at that. She tried not to be overwhelmed by how much she adored him.

"I shall get you whatever I want to get you for Christmas," he said quietly, "and I'm sure you'll grovel as you thank me no matter what, because that's just the way you are, Bella."

"I require no Christmas gift from you, My Lord," Bellatrix insisted, but his eyebrows went up.

"Luckily for us both," he said, "I do not require your permission to buy anything. Take your time coming to bed. Goodnight."

He planted a swift kiss on Bellatrix's forehead and turned away. She watched him go, thinking of the ease with which he'd killed today and the way he'd spoken of Christmas. He was a complicated and Dark soul, and she loved him for it, Bellatrix thought. She loved him more than she could ever say.

"You look beautiful, Bella."

Bellatrix smiled up at Voldemort as he tightened his hands around her. She really did look lovely in her airy white gown. Everyone was watching them dance, but Voldemort could not bring himself to care. All that mattered just now was the shine in her wide, dark eyes and the flush in her cheeks. All that mattered was that she was his wife. Suddenly overcome with something he hadn't known himself to possess, Voldemort dragged his thumb over Bellatrix's and murmured,

"I do love you, you know."

Voldemort's eyes sprang open as the bizarre dream dissolved like smoke in his mind. He dug his fists into his eye sockets, unsure of whether to laugh or sneer. What an odd dream to have had, he thought. He would never love anyone , not even Bellatrix, and to hear himself saying the words in his sleep was uncomfortable.

But now as he lay beside her, he turned his head and studied her features, and thought that at the very least he did care for her. He thought back to Paris, to the feel of sheathing himself inside of her for the first time. He could almost taste the clams she'd made him. He thought of the train to Italy, of the sound of her breathing from the bunk beneath him. He thought of the two weeks he'd spent in Venice, unsure of whether she'd reappear or not. He thought of dancing with her at her sister's wedding, of Bellatrix twirling in the rain. He thought of her in battle and in his bed.

And then he realised exactly what he'd done.

It was not love; it could never be love. But he felt things for Bellatrix that he wasn't meant to feel for anyone in the world. And right now, right this minute, she squirmed and curled up against his shirtless body, and he let her do it. He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, knowing full well that he had no choice right now.

"Bella." His voice crackled in the air, and Bellatrix moved again on the bed beside him. Her fingers trailed up his chest and she made a rather adorable little sound that send a terrible spike up Voldemort's spine. He took her hand in his, kissed her knuckles, and said far more firmly, "Bellatrix."

She jolted awake then, her thick braid swatting at Voldemort's face as she sat up and looked around wildly. She started to reach on impulse for her wand on the table beside her, but Voldemort seized her other hand.

"Is something wrong, My Lord?" she asked, her voice deep and hoarse. An awful pain went through Voldemort's chest as he met her eyes, a pain so severe he wondered if a little bit of him was dying.

"As soon as it is logistically feasible," he began, dragging each word from the bottom of his unwilling throat, "You will marry Rodolphus Lestrange."

For a half second, Bellatrix did nothing. She neither moved nor spoke, and then suddenly her fingers clamped around Voldemort's and thick tears welled in her lovely dark eyes. Her breath hitched and quickened as she tried unsuccessfully to keep herself from crying. She was more Bellatrix than ever then as she whispered,

"As you command, My Lord."

"You were promised to him," Voldemort reminded her sternly, "and I have selfishly kept you for myself for too long."

Bellatrix nodded, but her hands shook violently inside Voldemort's and her bottom lip trembled. She said nothing at all, which frustrated Voldemort. He finally growled,

"I let you get too damned close, Bella. Don't you understand, you silly, clinging little girl? Get out of my bed and get dressed."

Bellatrix flew away from him, scrambling off the bed as quickly as she could to obey him. She would always obey him, Voldemort knew. She'd marry Rodolphus Lestrange because he'd commanded her to do it. But as she opened the wardrobe and started changing into a simple, knee-length black velvet dress, her back heaved with quiet sobs.

"You are disappointed, I know," Voldemort nodded, sitting upright, "but you're meant to be his wife, and you can be nothing of the sort for me. You understand, Bella?"

She nodded, though he didn't need to look into her mind to read the heartbreak, the way her soul had been crushed.

"Shall I leave, My Lord?" she asked pitifully, and he shook his head, unwilling to send her off just yet.

"You need to know what will happen next," he said matter-of-factly, by way of an excuse to keep looking at her. He cleared his throat and said, "You'll go back to your parents' house; I shall write your father in the morning. I'll write Rodolphus and his parents. I want the two of you married within a month; it needn't be a large or celebratory affair."

Bellatrix shut her eyes and leaned heavily onto the writing-desk against the wall.

"And will you come, My Lord?" she asked weakly.

"To your wedding? Erm… no. No, I don't suppose I would care to do so," Voldemort said firmly. She nodded, and he could hardly hear her as she whispered,

"I understand… My Lord."

He sighed and pulled himself from his bed, walking over to her and taking her face in his hands. He dragged his thumbs under her eyes, brushing away tears, and he said,

"You may stay until morning, else I can send your belongings along after you."

"If it's all the same, My Lord, I think I shall go now," Bellatrix mumbled. Suddenly her gaze was blank and empty as she informed him, "I will always be your most devoted servant."

"I know," he nodded. He kissed her lips carefully, feeling a twist and yank in his chest as though something had been ripped from his very being. He pulled his mouth from hers and cleared his throat. "You will also always be that witch isn't Paris and Venice, Bella. That witch in the rain."

He stepped back from her and she nodded, looking suddenly determined.

"Thank you, My Lord," she said. "For everything."

Lord Voldemort's mind was stricken then by a terrible sense of doom and foreboding. He was doing the wrong thing, he knew. How he knew it, he would not have been able to say. But he found himself overcome with a sensation of fear and panic. He couldn't let her go. He mustn't. Something inside his chest and inside his head screamed at him; every fibre of his being shrieked not to send Bellatrix away.

"Damn it, Bella," he snarled, grabbing his face so hard he knew his fingers would leave bruises. He smashed his mouth against her, tasting sleep on her and knowing she'd do the same and not caring one bit. He yanked at the neckline of her black velvet dress until it gave way with a satisfying rip. He pulled roughly at the dress as Bellatrix scrambled to find her way out of it. He literally tore her knickers from her body, eliciting a little shriek of pain. He shoved her toward the bed and bent her over at her waist.

She'd be dry, he knew. She'd been confused and sleepy and upset, and he'd acted too quickly now. He snatched his wand from the table, using one hand to shove his pyjama trousers down. He pulled his half-hard cock out and murmured, "Lubrico."

Then he wrenched Bellatrix's legs apart, aimed himself at her entrance, and pushed into her. He went hard as he buried himself, filling and stretching her unready body. She yelped and then whimpered as Voldemort took her wrists in his hands and pinned them to the bed.

"Mine," he whispered frantically, unable to control the shake in his voice, "You are mine, Bella; you're not to be anyone's wife at all. Do you understand me?"

He bucked himself hard against her a few times, and when she did not answer him, he squeezed her wrists harder, bent down and pressed his chest against her back, and demanded again,

"Tell me you understand that you belong to me alone. Or are you a little fool, after all?"

"I understand, My Lord," she choked out, her breath quick and shallow under Voldemort's weight. He shoved himself against her a few more times, hissing through his clenched teeth as he came. His hands tightened on Bellatrix's wrists and his chest pushed her down harder, and he only let up when she coughed and muttered a plea for mercy.

He kissed the spot between her shoulder blades as his member softened and fell from her body. An obscene trickle of his seed was working its way down her thigh, he could tell. Still, he did not let her go.

"There is a reason, Bellatrix, that we were sent to Paris," he panted. He kissed the spot beneath her ear and whispered, "I do not know, nor do I much care what the reason is, but you must not marry Rodolphus Lestrange."

"As you command, My Lord," Bellatrix said into the blankets, rightfully sounding more confused than ever.