February 1973

Blaize Bailey

"You're very certain, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, staring at the brass key Voldemort was levitating before her. He nodded once.

"That odd sensation I experienced at your birthday party, just before you grabbed the bracelet. It's the same feeling. This is one of those… well, not Portkeys, but… it's cursed in the same way the bracelet was."

Bellatrix leaned onto the kitchen counter and studied the key. It looked perfectly normal, though the fact that it had been left on the stoop of the house at Blaize Bailey was more than a little suspicious. Bellatrix chomped her lip and asked,

"What do we do about it, Master? Do we destroy it?"

"No." He shook his head and set the key down onto the counter. He sighed deeply and touched his forehead. "I remain convinced that there was a very good reason why you and I were hurtled back to Paris, why Aloysius da Chioggia found it necessary to plant the bracelet - 'again,' according to his lived experience. If I could find out who was orchestrating all of this, perhaps I'd be wiser about it all. But my instinct is to consider that perhaps all this traveling through time and space is needed for me to achieve my goals. The how and the why are not yet clear, but… not all paths are straight, Bella."

She nodded and wondered aloud, "Where does it go, do you suppose?"

"No idea," Voldemort said honestly. "Keep your wand out and be prepared for anything. I've got money in my Extended pockets. Accio handbag."

Suddenly Bellatrix's leather bag, the one she'd Extended to hold clothing, potions, medical supplies, and more in case of emergency, came soaring into the kitchen. Bellatrix gulped as she caught the cross-body bag and put it on. She wondered if this would be the end of everything, or if the Dark Lord was right. Perhaps the only way forward was back.

"Take my wrist." Voldemort extended his right hand, the one holding his wand. Bellatrix noticed that he wasn't shaking one bit. He wasn't afraid. She curled her fingers around his wrist, pushing his sleeve back a bit to do so. She gripped her own wand carefully as Voldemort's left hand reached toward the key. His eyes stayed trained on the counter as he murmured, "No matter what happens, Bellatrix… know that I do indeed care for you."

She didn't have time to react to those words. He grasped the key in his hand, and suddenly everything was blinding white and searing hot. Then an icy blast and a sense of floating took over Bellatrix, and for a moment she was nothing. Then she was crashing onto her knees and immediately being hauled up by the Dark Lord. He Disapparated, and the black, pinching whirl made Bellatrix feel profoundly nauseated. When she came to in what seemed to be an alley, bent over at the waist and feeling like she might throw up, she heard Voldemort's voice murmur,

"Nearly got hit by a damned Muggle tram."

Bellatrix aimed her wand at herself and said in a shaking voice, "C-Contremesis."

"You'll be all right in a moment," the Dark Lord mused, and as the overwhelming nausea began to fade, Bellatrix watched him step out into the street. He walked very boldly up to a newsboy hawking papers. Bellatrix watched the boy shiver where he stood, and she knew he'd been Confounded to give a newspaper to Lord Voldemort without payment. The boy walked away, his motions almost mechanical, and Voldemort returned to the alley. He huffed out a little sigh and dragged his wand over the newspaper, murmuring spells to translate the text. His eyebrows went up, and he held the newspaper out to Bellatrix. She took it and read the title, which had remained in German. Wiener Zeitung. The date below said 9 February 1913. The headline, which had been translated, read, "VIENNA TO HOST WORLD FIGURE SKATING CHAMPIONSHIPS IN TWO WEEKS' TIME."

Bellatrix lowered the newspaper and looked up at Voldemort. She shook her head and said in a confused voice, "Precisely sixty years back. Vienna. Why?"

Voldemort furrowed his brows. "If my memory of history is correct, then Gellert Grindelwald was in Vienna during this time, slowly amassing the very beginnings of his army."

"Do you think we're meant to meet up with him here?" Bellatrix breathed, and Voldemort's cheeks went a bit red as he admitted,

"I know less about this time and place than I'd care to say. I speak only a few words of German, though there are spells to help with that. I know little of this time period. And… Grindelwald will be young. Thirty years of age. Just beginning."

"Oh." Bellatrix nodded and studied the newspaper again. She saw in an advertisement that a woman was wearing an elegant gown and hat. She handed the newspaper to Voldemort and requested, "Will you hold this up for a moment, Master? So that I can disguise myself a bit better?"

He did, looking almost amused by the way Bellatrix mimicked the pen drawings of women on the newspaper's front page. She lengthened the skirt of her black dress, narrowed it, added an overlay of green lace, tightened her sleeves, and Transfigured two pebbles into black gloves. She lengthened her hair again and then used her wand to direct it into a loose knot atop her head. She pulled a simple hat out of her Extended bag and Transfigured it into black wool with a peacock feather. By the time she was finished, Bellatrix was downright exhausted, still recovering from the time travel and the immediate Apparition. She looked up at Voldemort and asked,

"How do I look?"

He tipped his head, which now had an elegant black fedora atop it. He brushed his knuckles along Bellatrix's jaw and said, "Lovely. As always. Now… first thing's first. We need a place to stay before we can find out why we're here."

February 1913

Vienna, Austria

The Confundus Charm, as it turned out, was remarkably useful when one was in a time and place where one did not belong. Lord Voldemort was able to convince the management of the Hotel Sacher that he was an impoverished aristocrat from Britain, fleeing his English creditors with his equally noble wife. Anna Sacher, the Muggle who ran the establishment with the business acumen of a flea, was more than willing to provide fine accommodations to the Lord and Lady Black. And thanks to the Confundus Charm, the woman would never look more thoroughly into Voldemort's dubious claims.

It was half past three by the time Voldemort and Bellatrix settled into their elegant suite of rooms. The afternoon sun streamed in through the clean glass and illuminated the blue-and-white toile wallpaper and the elegant blue velvet furniture.

"I shall Transfigure more time-appropriate clothing as soon as I can, My Lord," Bellatrix said, leaning heavily onto a mahogany writing-desk in the parlour, "but I must ask if I might lie down for just a little while."

"You'll buy the clothes," Voldemort said firmly, "and I want you in the bedroom at once. Close your eyes; this exhaustion will pass. It's from too much travel, too much magical output at once. You'll be fine soon enough. We'll go eat in a few hours."

"Thank you, Master," Bellatrix mumbled, sounding a bit sick. He followed her into the bedroom and unbuttoned the back of her Transfigured gown, sliding it off of her and watching as she pulled a simple white slip out of her Extended bag. She would need a corset in this time, he realised, and that thought made him feel rather odd. He swallowed hard and informed her,

"We shall ask the concierge about nearby dressmakers, and… and you can get whatever you require in the morning."

"Thank you," she murmured. She pulled a few of the poufy brown silk pillows from the bed and tossed them onto the floor near the wall. She slid between the blankets, and Voldemort decided he wanted to join her. It was indeed draining, traveling through time and space. He stripped off everything but his trousers and white shirt and settled on the bed beside Bellatrix. He leaned back against the pillows as she shut her eyes. She breathed slowly and eventually whispered, "We're back to being married."

"So we are," Voldemort nodded. He pondered what exactly had happened today. When he'd found a brass key on his doorstep at Blaize Bailey, after returning from a battle in Scotland, he knew better than to touch it or to completely ignore it. Someone, somewhere had a vested interest in tossing him around chronology and geography. And for some reason, it seemed destined that Bellatrix would be with him.

He knew very little about the Austrian wizarding community in his own time, much less in 1913. Grindelwald was here somewhere, but Voldemort wouldn't have the first notion of how to find him. It would take careful sleuthing to uncovering the Magical community in Austria, and then to successfully worm his way to Grindelwald himself. Voldemort had a feeling they would be here for some time.

"Bella," he said quietly, but she'd already fallen asleep. He let her rest, choosing to tip his own head back and shut his eyes for a while. He drifted off after some time, and when he opened his eyes again, the light coming through the windows had been snuffed into nighttime. The carved wooden clock on the wall said six o'clock.

"Bella," Voldemort murmured, shaking her shoulder a bit. She jolted awake, and when she looked around, she seemed to realise for the second time where they were and what had happened.

"Shall I dress for dinner, My Lord?" she asked in a voice still husky with sleep. He nodded at her and began Transfiguring his own simple clothing into a sleek tuxedo. Bellatrix added some beading and embellishments to her own dress, made the sleeves shorter and the gloves longer, and added another peacock feather to her hat. Once they were both appropriately dressed, Voldemort held his arm out to her.

"Are you Edmund?" she asked, her dark eyes wide. He shook his head, not wanting to hear her say a name he'd never really possessed.

"Tom," he said simply. "Call me Tom. And you're Bellatrix. It's as simple as that."

"Tom," she breathed, and for some reason that old terrible name sounded beautiful coming from her lips. For a moment, Voldemort's eyes fluttered shut and he had to remind himself of who he was. No matter the time or place, he was Lord Voldemort. He was the Dark Lord. But hearing that old name, Tom, in Bellatrix's voice was almost enough to erase the loathing he bore the word.

Almost.

"Let's go," he said rather brusquely, guiding Bellatrix from their suite and locking the door behind them. As they made their way down the staircase, he murmured a spell over each of them. "Complectolingua," he said, repeating it for Bellatrix.

"Will I understand their German now?" she asked. Voldemort nodded and replied,

"And when you speak, they shall hear words they understand. It's the best solution for now."

Bellatrix smiled a little, holding up her skirt a bit as they descended from the final landing of stairs. She moved gracefully as Voldemort guided her into the green-and-black restaurant just off the lobby, and as they were taken to their table, she whispered,

"How delightfully Slytherin this place feels."

He couldn't help but snort a little laugh at that. He held Bellatrix's chair out for her and thanked the waiter for his menu when he sat. He watched the Muggles around them for a moment, all of them so caught up in their haughty finery that they were hardly looking at one another.

"Tell me what you'd like to eat," Voldemort said quietly. "Men order for women in this time."

"Oh." A little twist of displeasure came over Bellatrix's face, and Voldemort couldn't help but smirk. She deferred to him and was obedient to him, but to everyone else, she was often petulant and snarky. He enjoyed seeing both sides of her - the Bellatrix who stared lovingly up at him from his arm and the Bellatrix who pulled a face at a patriarchal method of ordering food. She was, after all, a soldier in his war. She was hardly a delicate blossom. But she'd have to be his here, even more than she was at home, if they were to blend in long enough to get answers and go back to their own time.

"I think I would like the olives to begin, and then the Tafelspitz," she said. Voldemort nodded. He was ordering the same main dish as her - boiled beef with minced apples and horseradish. It was a national dish of Austria, but owing to his inexperience with the country, Voldemort had never tried it.

"Good evening," said the crisp voice of the snooty-looking Muggle waiter. "What should I bring you to drink and eat?"

The wording was off, filtered through his comprehension spell, and Voldemort frowned a little. But he folded his hands on the table and said smoothly, "A bottle of Zweigelt. Olives for the lady to begin, and the asparagus with poached egg for myself. We'll both have the Tafelspitz."

The waiter seemed the tiniest bit confused as he scribbled the order down onto his little notepad. He tucked the pad and pencil into his jacket pocket and took the menus from Voldemort and Bellatrix. He nodded his head and said,

"The bottle of Zweigelt and the appetizers will be out quickly."

He walked away, and Voldemort watched him go, wanting to ensure the Muggle didn't report any suspicion to any of his colleagues.

"Erm… Tom?" Bellatrix said, and Voldemort snapped back to face her. She looked almost frightened as she asked in a low whisper, "Will we ever know why we… why this happens?"

"Yes." Voldemort nodded firmly. "Yes, we'll know, because I mean to find out. It may take a few days to track down the appropriate community, but I mean to do so. I know of precisely one shop of our nature here in Vienna, a place that sells… brooms." He looked around furtively, ensuring that no one else was listening. He leaned a bit toward Bellatrix and said, "Besenfliegen was well-known for making the fastest broomsticks in Europe, at least in the 1930s and 1940s. When I was at Hogwarts, all the Quidditch players coveted broomsticks from them."

Bellatrix frowned in confusion. "When I was at Hogwarts, everyone bought their brooms from the regular old shop in Diagon Alley."

Voldemort felt his cheeks go a little hot, and he knew he sounded irritated as he said, "Yes, well, you're twenty-five years younger than me, Bella. The last I'd heard, the very elderly and childless owner of Besenfliegen died in the early 60s, and the shop closed."

"But if he was so very old then," Bellatrix nodded, "perhaps the place is open now."

"It's the only lead I have on the magical community in Vienna," Voldemort admitted. "It's a decent starting point."

"Do you know where the shop is?" Bellatrix asked, and Voldemort said tightly,

"The best I can hope for is Side-Along Apparition with a very determined goal of the finding the place."

"Sir, would you like to taste the wine?" asked the Muggle waiter, startling Voldemort with his sudden presence. Voldemort nodded and watched as the waiter poured a dollop of purplish-red Zweigelt into his glass. He picked up the glass, breathed in the aroma of the wine, brought some between his lips, and savoured the fruity warmth. He nodded curtly and set his glass back down. The waiter poured glasses for both Voldemort and Bellatrix, and then he took two plates from the serving cart behind him. Once he'd given Bellatrix her olives and Voldemort his asparagus, he walked briskly away, and Bellatrix noted,

"I suppose they don't much care if the woman likes the wine. How uncivilised these Muggles are."

"Do not forget who I am and you are," Voldemort said sharply, sipping from his glass. "Does it matter if you like the wine, Bella, if I do not?"

Her cheeks went scarlet, and she shook her head. She stared down at her olives and blinked a few times. "I am sorry, My Lord. I will do much better remembering my place. And yours."

His stomach hurt for some inexplicable reason then, and he rather frustratedly stabbed at his asparagus. The two of them ate the entire meal in silence very occasionally punctuated by observations about the string quartet or the taste of the food. By the time they'd finished their Tafelspitz, Bellatrix was staring out the window onto the street and chewing her lip.

"I am sorry," she whispered again. "I mean you no disrespect. I never do, Master."

"Don't," he barked, so harshly that an old woman at a nearby table glanced over. Bellatrix seemed confused, and Voldemort gulped hard. He might well regret saying what he was about to say, but he couldn't quite help himself. He met Bellatrix's wide eyes and sneered quietly, "Do not call me Master."

She seemed more bewildered than ever then, her full lips parting as she shook her head. Voldemort felt his heart accelerating in his chest, and he decided to simply tell her the truth.

"I quite like the word from anyone else but you. Don't read too much into that; do as I command and stop calling me Master."

It was a profoundly conflicted message, he knew, but she took his contradictory words in stride. She smiled a little and murmured,

"I'll call you whatever pleases you. Whatever makes you happy, My Lord. Tom."

His chest twisted oddly on that last word, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to whisk Bellatrix up to their suite and take her on the bed. He'd be slow, taking his time touching every inch of her and savouring her climax before even pushing into her. He shut his eyes and tried to gather himself. Finally he managed to say stiffly,

"We ought to order dessert. I just heard someone say they have an excellent chocolate cake here."

February 1913

Vienna, Austria

"Slow down, Bella," Voldemort commanded as Bellatrix's fingers flew down the buttons of his tuxedo shirt. She'd already helped him shuck his jacket and waistcoat, and her gown and nearly all her undergarments were already off. But he put his hands on her shoulders and huffed again, "Slow down."

She obeyed him, breathing heavily with want as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders. His own hands pulled at the hem of her slip, guiding it up and over her head. Bellatrix controlled her movements as she unfastened the placket of his trousers, and he pulled the pins from her hair until her curls tumbled down. He kicked his trousers away and peeled off his socks, and then both of them were standing before the great wooden bed, naked and panting. Bellatrix reached on instinct for his cock, but Voldemort snatched her wrist and shook his head vehemently.

"Just look at me for a moment," he commanded her. He did not release her wrist as his eyes locked onto hers. Bellatrix tried to slow her breathing, to ignore the ache of desire in her abdomen. She stared into his cold, dark eyes, studying the nearly-black irises and his long lashes. He dragged his thumb along the inside of her wrist, and she whimpered a little. Suddenly reality started to dissolve around her. It didn't matter that they were in Vienna, or that they'd gone back in time again. It didn't matter that they were pretending at being a married couple once more. All that mattered was the feel of his fingers on the ring he'd given her. All that mattered was the angle of his jaw, the power that emanated from him. His eyes.

"Bella," he whispered, not taking his eyes from her, "I am a fool for you in a manner most unfitting for a Dark Lord."

"I'm sorry," she replied, but he shook his head.

"I don't care anymore. I can't." He lowered his face and kissed her, snaking his fingers into his hair as his lips touched hers. He brushed his mouth against Bellatrix's a few times, his movements almost maddeningly slow. He started to push a bit harder, to put more pressure behind his lips, and Bellatrix's hands landed squarely on his chest. His tongue danced along Bellatrix's bottom lip, and she shivered as she moaned,

"Oh, please, My Lord…"

"You will have patience tonight, Bellatrix," he scolded her, his breath a warm puff against her. She gasped at the sensation and he took full advantage, sending his tongue between her lips and drawing circles on the roof of her mouth. Bellatrix's fingers tightened on his chest, and his kiss grew deeper than ever. He pulled her lip between his teeth and then released it with a little pop, drawing back as Bellatrix got dizzy.

"Go lie on the bed," he instructed her, and Bellatrix obeyed. She scampered up onto the high mattress, lying on her back against the myriad pillows. Voldemort stalked very slowly behind her, sitting on the bed with his legs dangling lazily over the edge. Bellatrix stared at his cock, which seemed to be wanting attention badly, but he did nothing to attend to it. Instead, he began to touch her. His right hand glided smoothly from her shoulder to her wrist and back again, then did the same on the other side. He seemed in no rush, though Bellatrix's body screamed at her to beg for penetration.

"Close your eyes and just feel me touching you, will you?" he said a bit sharply, and Bellatrix did as he said. She shut her eyes and felt him crawl up closer to her. Suddenly his hands were drifting all over her in a slow, circuitous path that went everywhere except the place between her legs. He was dusting his fingers around her thighs, stroking up her ribcage, caressing her collarbone, and lightly squeezing at her breasts. It seemed to go on forever, and was so blissfully peaceful that Bellatrix almost fell asleep. Her breath settled into a steady, deep rhythm, and all there was was the feel of his hands brushing over her.

"Beautiful," she heard him murmur. "You're very beautiful."

"Mmm… My Lord." Bellatrix felt her cheeks go warm as her eyes fluttered open. She stared up into his face, seeing power and passion in his dark eyes, and she couldn't help but touch his arms. She rubbed her fingers along his biceps, down over his elbows and around his strong forearms. He grunted quietly, and she watched his throat bob as he said in a hoarse tone,

"I am driven very nearly mad by you at times, Bella. It is a sensation I find unacceptably comfortable. Yet, attempts in the past to rid myself of you have proven fruitless."

Bellatrix had no idea what to say to such a thing, so she said the very first thing that came to her mind.

"I love you."

"I know you do," he nodded vehemently. He leaned down and kissed Bellatrix's chest, his lips dragging over her breast and suckling for a moment on her nipple. He kept going, over her flat stomach and even lower, his hands pushing her thighs apart as his face settled between her legs.

"Oh. Oh. My Lord…" Bellatrix was shocked by the way his mouth clamped down onto her most intimate place, by the way his tongue began to flick around her nub and draw long lines around her entrance. She impulsively grabbed at his face, trying and failing to pull him away. This was not something she'd ever imagined the Dark Lord doing to her, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But it felt so good, so positively divine, that she finally gave up and just combed her fingers through his hair.

She squirmed on the bed as his tongue deepened its strokes. When he groaned against her, the vibration felt so good that Bellatrix squealed and arched her back up. When he slipped two fingers inside her to augment what his mouth was doing, it was too much. Bellatrix felt herself clenching around his fingers as he pulled her nub between his lips. Everything was warm and loud for a moment, and as she caught her breath, her nipples were almost painfully hard. She lay in silent gratitude for a few seconds, and then Voldemort rose onto his knees.

His cock took the place of his mouth, gliding smoothly into her sodden, sensitive body. He hissed through his teeth and wiped his pearlescent lips with the back of his wrist. He pulled Bellatrix's legs around his waist, encouraging her to bend her knees. He started to pump slowly where he knelt, his hands coursing around Bellatrix's torso. He filled her and pulled out, over and over, as his palms adored her ribcage and his fingers played with her breasts. In and out, in and out, smooth and slow like the most soothing breath.

That seemed to go on forever, and when at last he collapsed forward onto his hands and twitched inside of her, he pressed his lips to hers. Bella tasted herself on his lips, a little grateful that he didn't deepen the kiss. Instead he moved his lips her her ear, his breath hard and fast in the wake of his climax.

"Here we are again," he whispered, "and once more you're the only one I've got."

Bellatrix planted her hands between her lord and master's shoulder blades. She thought his old name, the one that was his alias here, but she didn't dare speak it aloud. Tom. Somehow, he seemed infinitely more human when she thought of him by that name. He knew that, and that was precisely why he'd gone by Lord Voldemort for decades. It made him superhuman; it elevated him above the others. But he was already far beyond a mere mortal by Bellatrix's estimation, and thinking of him as Tom could never change that. Perhaps he knew that much, too, for he rolled onto his back beside Bellatrix and mumbled,

"Go on. Say it."

"Tom," she whispered, studying his face as she did. He shut his eyes and looked for a moment as though he were in pain. Bellatrix quickly added, "but you are also that name that I dare not speak. You are the Dark Lord. My mast-"

"Don't," he clipped, just like he'd done in the restaurant. He opened his eyes and looked right at her, confusion written in his eyes. He gulped hard and whispered simply, "Bella…"

She had no idea what the right thing to say was then, so she just stayed silent. Finally he kissed her forehead and said softly,

"In the morning, we'll go find the broom shop… Besenfliegen. We'll start by uncovering the wizarding community in Vienna, and we'll go from there. Get some sleep in the meantime."

"Yes, My Lord." Bellatrix started to roll away from him, to give him space on the mattress, but he pulled her back and wordlessly tucked her against his own body. He shut his eyes as though signaling that there was no further need for discussion. Bellatrix laced an arm across him and cast a leg across his thighs. Then she shut her eyes and let herself melt into him, and soon enough she was utterly lost to sleep.

February 1913

Vienna, Austria

Voldemort shut his eyes and imagined his sixth year at Hogwarts, when Abraxas Malfoy had proudly strutted into the Slytherin common room after the Christmas holidays. He'd had a brand-new broomstick in tow, and everyone had gathered round to see the Slytherin Seeker's new gear. It was a Schnelles Holz 40, Abraxas proudly told everyone. He'd gone with his father to Vienna, to the broom shop called Besenfliegen. Even in the middle of the Muggle war, in the middle of the conflict with Grindelwald, the Malfoys had journeyed to Austria. Now Voldemort thought very hard about his jealousy regarding the Malfoys' money, about Abraxas' trip to Vienna. He thought of the shop over and over and over. Besenfliegen. Broom shop. Vienna.

"Ready?" he asked Bellatrix, and he felt her little hand slip into his.

"Ready, My Lord," she replied. He thought of the shop again. Besenfliegen. Vienna. Then he turned to his right and Disapparated, taking Bellatrix with him. There was a moment of dark pinching, and then they had landed cleanly on their feet.

When Voldemort opened his eyes, he found himself standing on a bustling street with Bellatrix. Before them was a narrow storefront nestled into an elegant neoclassical building. Besenfliegen, it read on the metal-and-wood sign. The Muggles around them seemed to completely ignore the shop; they walked right by it and continued in their mundane conversations. Suddenly Voldemort realised he hadn't fully thought through the alibi and lie they would need to present in a broom shop. He turned to Bellatrix and told her firmly,

"You'll need to be my daughter."

She looked wholly scandalised, and she blinked a few times as she visibly struggled not to argue. Voldemort rolled his eyes and said carefully,

"I am forty-six. You are twenty-one. We can scarcely go in there enquiring about a broom for our child who's old enough to fly, can we?"

Bellatrix looked aghast. She shook her head. "No, My Lord. I suppose we can't."

"But for your younger brother…" Voldemort tipped his head. "You understand. After this, I'm Tom again."

Bellatrix frowned. "My Lord, what if the proprietor of this shop and someone else talk about us and -"

"Why don't we try to stay inconspicuous enough that perhaps we don't become Viennese gossip fodder?" Voldemort demanded sharply. He gestured toward the shop. "Come inside. We're shopping for your brother."

Bellatrix nodded and walked a step behind him as he approached the shop. He held the door for her and followed her inside as she pulled off her gloves. The bell above the door had chimed to notify the shopkeep of their arrival, and a middle-aged wizard quickly made his way out from a back room.

"Guten Morgen!" he greeted in what was clearly German. He said something else, and Voldemort put on the best German accent he could to ask if they might speak English.

"English! Of course," the wizard said. "I'm Albert Kreisler. I think you are in need of a broom?"

"Indeed," Voldemort nodded. He gestured to Bellatrix and said with a measure of discomfort, "My daughter and I are looking for the swiftest broom you've got."

Kreisler put his eyebrows up and glanced at Bellatrix for a moment before asking, "Is it for you, Miss?"

"For my brother," she answered automatically. "Poor Edmund didn't make Slytherin Quidditch team this year, and he's been heartbroken since autumn. The dear boy isn't particularly gifted at Quidditch, but we were hoping that perhaps the right equipment might make a difference."

Kreisler laughed a bit and nodded. "I have just the broom in mind. Please, give me a moment to fetch it from the back."

He went back into the storage room, and Voldemort eyed Bellatrix, more than a little impressed.

"You're a bit too good at lying," he murmured softly, and Bellatrix shrugged with a cheeky little smirk.

"Just trying to be convincing… Father," she said, and Voldemort scowled.

"Don't do that," he ordered her. It was bad enough to know that he was actually old enough to be her father; he certainly didn't need her calling him that. Luckily, Kreisler came back out with an elegant, smooth-looking broomstick in his hands. It had polished brass stirrups and a matching handle, and the twigs looked quite aerodynamic. Kreisler held it out proudly and said,

"The Schnelles Holz 10. The model is a few years old, but it's still the one I recommend for those who need stability and accuracy in flight, prioritised over pure speed. What do you think?"

"Well, Bella?" Voldemort asked, cocking up an eyebrow at her. "What do you think?"

Bellatrix nodded and smiled. "I think Edmund will be on the team next year. And if he isn't, Herr Kreisler, we won't blame you. Promise."

"I like the way your daughter thinks, sir!" Kreisler laughed. "The price of the broom is twelve English Galleons, if that's how you wish to pay. It's on clearance, since it's not the latest model."

Voldemort reached into his pocket and began counting out coins on the wooden countertop. He slid the two neat piles he'd made to Kreisler, who handed over the broom with a smile.

"Are you in town for long?" he asked, and Voldemort saw his opportunity.

"For a few days, at least," he said smoothly. "We aren't very familiar with the wizarding community here. Have you any recommendations of good shops or restaurants?"

"Well, our shop here is a bit of an outlier," said Kreisler. "For the equivalent of… what is it called in London? Diagon Alley? Well, we have a wizarding street here. You just go right onto the Rosengasse here, and you turn right again on the Teinfaltstrasse. At number four, you'll see an unmarked black door with a silver knocker shaped like a hippogriff. The Muggles will be ignoring it, but if you walk through the black door, you will find the Versteckte-Strasse. That's the heart of wizarding Vienna."

"Did you catch all that, Bella?" Voldemort asked, glancing down to her.

"Right on the Rosengasse. Right on the Teinfaltstrasse. Unmarked black door at number four." She grinned up at him, and he tried not to let his gaze linger on Bellatrix for too long. He felt a surge of affection for her just now, and he reckoned it would probably show in his eyes.

"Thank you for your purchase," the wizard called Kreisler was saying. "Enjoy the rest of your stay in Vienna."

"Thank you," Voldemort nodded. He watched as Bellatrix opened her Extended bag and pushed the broom into it. That made Kreisler laugh, and he was grinning as Voldemort nodded his farewell from the doorway.

"Well, My Lord, if either of us wants to go for a good fly, we have the means now," Bellatrix said as they headed up the Rosengasse. Voldemort hesitated for a moment, then informed her,

"I've figured out flight, you know."

Bellatrix's feet paused, and she stared up at him with eyes round as saucers. Her whispering voice was filled with awe then as she asked, "You can fly?"

He nodded, feeling rather full of himself all of a sudden. He shrugged and fibbed, "It's not so difficult. Sometime I'll take you with me. No broom."

Bellatrix let out a choked sound of shock, shaking her head as she marveled quietly, "My Lord, I don't think there has ever been or will ever be anyone so powerful as you."

His heart accelerated as they turned right on the Teinfaltstrasse. She admired him so fiercely, and that made her all the more beautiful in his eyes. Soon enough they came to number four, and Voldemort stepped up to the black door with the silver hippogriff knocker. He turned to Bellatrix and said,

"Keep your ears open as we walk down the street. Listen for people talking about Grindelwald. Complectolingua… Complectolingua." He cast the comprehension spell over each of them in turn, and then he turned the large silver doorknob and pushed open the black door.

When the door closed behind him, he and Bellatrix seemed to have merely turned another street corner. The Versteckte-Strasse was not a crowded, Tudor-style close like Diagon Alley. By contrast, it was a wide boulevard with an airy feel and tree-lined sidewalks.

"Much more spacious than London," Bellatrix admitted, stepping down onto the sidewalk and studying the buildings about them. There were shops for potions ingredients, quills and parchment, books, cauldrons, pets and familiars, and more. When they came to a witches' robe shop, Voldemort told Bellatrix,

"Go inside there and get a few outfits for yourself. I'm going to meander about and listen. I'll meet you back here in twenty minutes."

She nodded and said rather meaningfully, "Goodbye, Tom."

Hearing her say his name like that, especially after the charade of playing her father, made his pulse quicken. His lips felt suddenly dry, and he forced himself to answer her,

"Twenty minutes, Bella."

He spent that time walking up and down the sidewalks, going into the bookshop to browse, and eyeing the merchandise in a sweet shop. There, in the Konditoren, he heard two witches chatting as they assembled baskets of baked goods and chocolates.

"I've heard there's a new troublemaker about," said one grey-haired witch to the other. "Some man called Grindelwald. Thinks he's the next great Dark Lord or some such thing."

"Pah. There's always one, isn't there?" the other witch mused. "The Muggle Sigmund Freud would tell you that Grindelwald is accounting for a shortcoming somewhere else!"

They both giggled and began talking about one witch's daughter getting married. Voldemort frowned as he stepped out of the sweet shop. So, Grindelwald was not yet powerful. He was still a bit of a laughingstock, at least among the general magical populace. If Voldemort did manage to meet up with Grindelwald in this time, he would appear to be in pursuit of an unimpressive movement. But Voldemort remembered his own early days, the days when he'd first insisted everyone stop calling him Tom Riddle. He remembered the way people scoffed at him, the way he'd had to beg, borrow, and steal funds and housing and support. He'd clawed his way to where he was in 1973. Doubtlessly, Grindelwald had had to do the same. If Voldemort could edge into Grindelwald's movement in its early days, he thought, perhaps the two could be allies.

But, then, they hadn't been allies in 1973, and suddenly Voldemort realised something. To change the past - to make himself a notable figure in Grindelwald's life - might endanger the reality he'd left behind. Perhaps if Tom Riddle became allies with Grindelwald, or killed him, or did anything so radical as that, there would be no Lord Voldemort. Perhaps Bellatrix would never be born. Perhaps Dumbledore's path would be changed. There was a reason, after all, that massive leaps in time travel were illegal under nearly all Magical governments.

No, Voldemort thought to himself… he was here for observation. He was supposed to watch, to learn, to see how exactly it was that Grindelwald went from a nobody to a feared villain. And he was meant to do so with Bellatrix, because he was meant to have her back in the 1970s. As for who was orchestrating all of this, Voldemort could not help but wonder if perhaps there was no who. Perhaps this simply was. Perhaps it was a simple fact that he was a silent apprentice of Grindelwald so that he could thrash his way to ultimate glory in the 1970s.

He stared across the Versteckte-Strasse to the robe shop where Bellatrix had gone. She was waiting outside with garment bags over her arm, and as he crossed the street to her, he itched to get back to the Hotel Sacher. He took the garment bags from Bellatrix when he walked up to her and held out his arm.

"Let's go," he murmured furtively. "We have much to discuss."

Her eyes were wide and curious as she snared her hand beneath his sleeve. As soon as he knew he had her, Voldemort Disapparated, coming to in the parlour of their elegant suite. Then he began to explain his revelations to the witch whose fate seemed inseparable from his.