Lord Voldemort sat in the hammered copper slipper clawfoot tub and dragged his fingers across the steaming hot, opaque water. He leaned his head back against the metal tub and shut his eyes, relishing the feel of the water on his body and remembering what it had been like to come back from the Continent to the luxury of Malfoy Manor all those years before. Then he thought back farther, much farther, and suddenly his mind trained to what he'd done with his body in his youth. He wasn't sure, suddenly, why he began thinking about all the times he'd been with witches. It must have been because he'd touched Bellatrix's jaw and kissed her forehead, he thought. But for whatever reason, his mind began replaying his own history in vivid detail, like a film in a Muggle cinema that Voldemort was helpless to stop.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had been devastatingly handsome as a Hogwarts student, and he'd been so charismatic and charming that even the most elite, silk-stocking Pureblood witches who were destined for equally choice husbands clamoured for his attention. He granted them kisses and smiles and flirtatious words as a younger boy, teasing them and making them swoon. But as he grew older, he grew hungrier, and the witches grew bolder. He wound up losing his virginity to Sadie Crouch in the autumn of his sixth year, when he snuck into the girls' dormitory and shut the curtains round her bed. Sadie had been willing and pretty but just as inexperienced as young Tom, and that encounter was embarrassing to look back upon. Just the same, Sadie had gone and notified all the other Slytherin girls that Tom Riddle was an absolute delight, and his reputation had spread like Fiendfyre.
Unwilling to sacrifice his burgeoning notoriety as a Lothario, Tom Riddle had seduced and apparently pleased one pretty little Pureblood witch after another until they'd all left Hogwarts. It had amused him very greatly later on to attend all of the many weddings between his former cronies and the witches to whom they'd been promised, nearly all of whom had at one point writhed beneath Tom and moaned out his name. Much later on, when the war had raged and many of his Death Eaters had been slain in battle or imprisoned, it had seemed a bit less funny to write letters of condolence to those witches, or to attend their husbands' funerals as their master.
Druella Rosier, Bellatrix Black's mother, had been one stubborn holdout at Hogwarts. She'd been madly attracted to Tom Riddle, just like all of the other girls. But she'd insisted, Tom knew at the time, that she must be chaste and pure for her intended, Cygnus Black III. And so she'd refused to be intoxicated and dazzled by Tom Riddle's charms the way the other girls had been. She'd even dared to lecture her classmates on how they were relinquishing their bodies to a Half-Blood orphan with no pedigree and not a Galleon to his name. Tom remembered vividly going red-faced in the Slytherin Common Room one day when Druella had admonished Iris Greengrass about the matter, but then Tom had just taken Iris by the hand and escorted her to his dormitory and drilled her into his sheets.
During his time working at Borgin and Burke's, Tom Riddle was known to occasionally visit the Prancing Pony, the house of ill repute in Knockturn Alley. He received dances and kisses and sometimes a bit more from the girls there, but he knew little of the working witches' backgrounds or derivation, and he always felt completely filthy after leaving the place. No Scouring spell was ever strong enough to wash the stink, the foul fetor, and the sensation of roiling sin, from Tom's body once he'd left the Prancing Pony. So after a while, he'd stopped going there. The witches he'd amused himself with at Hogwarts had all married and now couldn't be troubled with him; he saw them from time to time as customers in the shop, when they would give him shy smiles and maybe a flirtatious look, but that was all. There had been one singular frantic dalliance in the back store room, when he'd been minding the shop alone and Freya Travers had come in without her husband. But that had just been the one time, and then he hadn't seen Freya again until after he returned from the Continent, and by then she had had three children and had matured well beyond any interest in him.
Here in Malfoy Manor, having time traveled back into the 1960s after having lived fifty-five years of his own real life, Lord Voldemort reached for his wand and heated the water a little. He was luxuriating, he knew, basking in the soaped-up water, but he didn't care. He sniffed and set his wand back down and thought again. He remembered the day he'd decided it was time to go to the Continent to commence his studies; he'd been approached by a Vampire who had promised him access to the Magical underworld in Paris in exchange for a few of Borgin and Burke's most prized ancient artefacts. Voldemort had snuck away from London in the dead of night and hadn't returned for many years.
In France, and then in Spain, and Greece, and Romania, and Norway, and everywhere else he found himself, Voldemort was supremely tempted by delicious Dark women. Some were irresistible Veela or half-Veela, gorgeous beyond compare. Others were nubile young witches seeking out instruction in Bone Magic in the ossuary pits in Austria. One had been a witch in her forties, a bit older than Voldemort, who had been elegant in her confidence and remarkably skilled with revived Viking Magic; he'd met her one winter in Viborg in Denmark. They'd spent dark nights together for months, with her petting Tom's hair and whispering to him about the smokiness of his character and him murmuring back about how much he craved power. They inevitably would wind up tangled and sweaty. But one morning, Tom had awakened and Gry Alba had been gone, and he'd never seen her again.
Once he'd come back from the Continent, his mind and priorities had been laser-focused on his movement, on gaining money and followers. But then, like a lightning bolt crashing from the heavens, had come Bellatrix Black in the late 1960s. He'd met her as a young Slytherin, and though he'd never touched her, never kissed her, never even told her that he thought she was beautiful, Lord Voldemort had found that other witches seemed uninteresting and even sour to him thereafter. Once he'd met Bellatrix, dancing at social events with the grown witches who had been the beautiful young girls he'd shagged at Hogwarts became a dull chore. He never again stepped foot in the Prancing Pony. He neither sought out nor reciprocated any flirtation. And even as he became overwhelming in his authority and influence, he was never again even vaguely tempted by the many comely young daughters his Death Eaters attempted to throw at him. Desperate though they all were to match their winsome offspring with the powerful Dark Lord, he'd long lost interest. His mind was fixed on war, on conquest, on political machinations and on the subjugation of wizarding Britain. And for thirteen years, any carnal, and, perhaps, maudlin interest toward witches he might have possessed was reserved for Bellatrix alone. Since she was entirely unavailable, Voldemort resigned himself for over a decade to the single-minded pursuit of dominion, and he let himself fantasise about Bellatrix when he was alone.
Sometimes, after a hard-won battle, flush with euphoria from victory, Voldemort would lie alone in his bed in his manor home at Danby and shut his eyes, replaying the scenes of Bellatrix shrieking out curses and eliminating his enemies. He'd go hard and stroke himself to completion, mumbling her name in a low groan as he came. Sometimes he would feel compelled to attend some silly social function, like Narcissa's wedding to Lucius Malfoy, where Bellatrix had looked painfully beautiful. Voldemort had danced with her there, and later that night, he'd stood at his bedroom window with his head tipped against the glass, the music from the dance echoing in his mind as he saw her face staring up at him. He'd gone hard then, too, and he'd found his pleasure to the delusion of bringing Bellatrix to his house after the party, of stripping off her ball gown and kissing her bare skin.
Now, having traveled through time and found himself in a place where she barely knew him, Lord Voldemort gasped where he sat in the bathtub and shifted a little, making the warm water splash a bit. He was acutely uncomfortable, for all those thoughts of Bellatrix in the many years he'd known her had sent his mind whirling at a thousand miles an hour. He wanted her, he thought desperately. More than any witch he'd ever plundered, from silly little Sadie Crouch in 1943 to Gry Alba in Denmark and everyone in between, he craved Bellatrix Lestrange with all of his being.
Bellatrix Lestrange. No. She was not Bellatrix Lestrange here. Perhaps she never would be. She'd abandoned her relationship with Rodolphus, who had, in Voldemort's lived existence, grown to be a perfectly serviceable soldier at Bellatrix's suggestion but had annoyed Voldemort to no end. Here, Bellatrix was just Bellatrix Black, young and unmarried, promised to no one. She was available, he thought frantically. He could claim her here, perhaps. He hadn't even been able to kiss her in the thirteen years she had driven him utterly mad with desire, with an almost obsessive attraction that at times had made him feel delirious and deranged. But here, in this time, when he was the Dark Lord ascending and she had severed her ties to Rodolphus Lestrange, he might be able to forge a new bond between them. He might be able to make her his in a way she'd never been before.
Perhaps, he thought distantly, there was a reason she had dreamed of his Killing Curse against Harry Potter backfiring almost at the same time it had actually happened to him. Surely there was a good reason that had happened. Voldemort shut his eyes and remembered something Gry Alba, that Danish witch who had studied old Viking Magic, the one who had whispered to him in the dark Northern nights for so long, had told him many years earlier.
"I am not the one that is meant to lie beside you," she had said very gently one night, twining Tom Riddle's thick black waves in her thin fingers. She'd chewed her bottom lip and had shaken her head and had added, "You will meet her. Once, then again. Eventually, she will take her place beside you."
Tom had narrowed his dark eyes at Gry Alba. "Who?"
She had given him a peaceful look and had released his hair, lying on her back. "Your weapon. Your consort. Get some rest, Tom. Det er så sent, og jeg er meget træt."
Voldemort wordlessly reached for his wand where he sat in the bath at Malfoy Manor. He had gone cold with alarm, though the water was still relatively hot. He set the water to draining and stood, making the water splash. He reached for his plush white towel and dried himself off, everything beginning to register in his mind. Gry Alba had been skilled with seiðr, an esoteric, cabalistic Norse form of seeing and shaping the future whose origins and methods had been mostly lost to time. Bona fide practitioners of seiðr, who could prove their abilities with the craft, were so rare that they lived in hiding to protect themselves. Now Voldemort found himself wondering just what Gry Alba had been up to when she'd seemed to have predicted that Tom Riddle would wind up lying beside Bellatrix.
Something compelled Voldemort to go out of the bathroom into his apartment's bedroom, to dress himself in some of the nicer robes he'd recently bought at Twilfitt and Tatting's. He pulled on black woolen trousers and a white linen tunic, yanking on a black brocade waistcoat and a lightweight traveling robe. He shoved black dragonhide boots on and seized his wand off the table, checking his reflection in his full-length mirror. It would be rude to show up unannounced right now, he thought. It was half past seven in the evening; the family might be in the middle of dinner for all he knew. He ought to at least send an owl, or to ask Cygnus to bring her here. He glanced out his window and realised that it was still raining, as it had begun to do a few hours earlier. But he couldn't care about any of that, for the life of him. He just snatched his waterproof rain cloak off the hook in the corner, stalked quickly out of his apartments, and rushed down the staircase, striding like a hooded black wraith out of Malfoy Manor before Disapparating.
"Charlus Potter and his wife, my aunt Dorea, came into Gringotts today, dear," said Cygnus Black III, and Bellatrix glanced from her mother to her father before returning her eyes to her elderflower ice cream. She dragged her spoon over it, too full from her meal of hare and ratatouille to eat the dessert.
"Did they?" Druella was asking. "I've not seen Dorea in an age. Years, it seems. Is she well?"
"Well enough," Bellatrix's father replied. He took a spoonful of elderflower ice cream thoughtfully. Narcissa and Andromeda had finished their desserts. "Charlus Potter, however, seemed to be in very ill health. He's much older than Dorea, you know. He survived a horrific Cystic Doxy Egg Toxicus case; it's absolutely destroyed his liver and lungs."
"Poor old Uncle Charlus!" exclaimed Narcissa, but Bellatrix found herself unaffected. The only thing that perked her ears up was the surname. Potter. It made her think of the dream she'd had, in which an older and scarred Lord Voldemort had slain a young wizard on a staircase and his red-haired wife upstairs, and then had tried to kill the baby, a boy called Harry Potter. Bellatrix shivered where she sat.
"In any case," Cygnus was saying, "Charlus came in because he was setting up all manner of protections on his accounts and on what fortune he and Dorea do have, things to ensure that when he does pass away, only Dorea can access his funds. It was all quite grim, but it's necessary, you know, if your health is poor."
"How ghastly," Andromeda grumbled, and Druella just tutted with regret. Suddenly the doorbell chimed, cutting through the relative quiet of the Black family's Mayfair home, and everyone around the table looked at one another curiously. It was much later than usual for an unannounced visitor, and it was raining hard. Bellatrix heard Kip, the family's House Elf with boundless, obnoxious energy, go careening through the grand foyer. Bellatrix anxiously set down her spoon and, very much on instinct, pulled herself to her feet out of her chair.
"Sit down, dear; let Kip tell us who's come," hissed Druella, but Bellatrix ignored protocol and let her feet carry her out of the dining room. She made her way into the corridor, which was lined with an ornate royal blue Turkish runner and papered with luxurious matching blue damask on the walls. Someone was bent down just a bit in the doorway, rain thudding around his tall figure, as he he murmured something to Kip the House-Elf. Kip nodded eagerly and turned to dash off, yelping in surprise when he bumped into Bellatrix. She paused, just a few steps from the front door, and watched as the figure before her stood upright.
"My Lord," she whispered, and he curled up his lips a little.
"Please do come inside, Mr Riddle," Kip was saying quickly. "As you can see, sir, Miss Bellatrix is right here, just as you've requested, sir."
Lord Voldemort stepped into the foyer, out of the rain, and peeled off the hood of his cloak. Kip was almost hyperactive then as he suggested,
"If you wish, sir, you could simply take off your cloak and drop it, sir, and Kip will put it safely up to dry that rain off of it for you, sir."
"No." Voldemort shook his head. He pulled out his wand and brushed it over himself. His rain cloak dried off almost at once, and he stared straight at Bellatrix before opening his mouth and then shutting it again. She watched him adjust his grip on his wand, and then he blinked a few times before he admitted, "I did not think this visit all the way through, I confess, Miss Black. I can see I've interrupted dinner."
"We'd almost finished our dessert," Bellatrix said dismissively. "Elderflower ice cream. I had no interest."
"No?" His voice sounded odd then, a bit strained, and she shook her head. She smirked.
"I've not got much of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid."
"No. Except for apricot marzipan petit fours, of course." He smiled quite wistfully at her, as though remembering something, and then suddenly he looked abjectly horrified. Bellatrix felt deep confusion. She had never told him such a thing, surely. Of course she liked apricot marzipan petit fours, but he would have no way of knowing that. She scowled and demanded,
"May I ask who told you that was my favourite dessert… My Lord?"
"Oh. Erm. It's…" He shut his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose and finally said quietly, "I am a Legilimens."
Suddenly it all made sense, or at least most of it. He was a Legilimens. She knew, intellectually, that Legilimency was far more complicated than the primitive act of mind-reading. She knew it involved the ability to scan memories for certain thoughts or ideas, to feel for emotions, to parse out opinions, to sense loyalties. She knew that true born Legilimens had been utilised in the past by the Ministry for interrogation purposes, that people had been thrown into Azkaban for weaponising or profiting from their natural Legilimency. It was a complicated gift, she knew. And suddenly it did not seem so very odd that this immensely powerful, sophisticated, knotty, handsome wizard was able to discern that one of the few sweets she enjoyed were apricot marzipan petit fours. She opened her mouth to answer him, but from behind her, she heard her mother Druella say in a simpering voice,
"Oh, Tom Riddle! It's been a veritable eternity. What a pleasant surprise to have you in our home."
"Hello, Druella." Lord Voldemort sounded troubled and distracted as his eyes flicked from Bellatrix to her mother. He managed a small smile for Druella, who asked,
"What brings you to London, Tom? You're boarding with the Malfoys in Wiltshire these days, no?"
Voldemort's cheeks reddened. "My movement is based there at the moment, yes."
Bellatrix felt a surge inside her chest, a sudden but powerful need to say something, and she turned to her mother and blurted,
"You know perfectly well, Mum, that he's got an office at Malfoy Manor. You know Father meets with him there to discuss politics and things. Well, so do I. I told you I had plans for my future. Well."
She tipped her chin up, and Druella looked flabbergasted. She glanced expectantly to Voldemort, who just stared at Bellatrix like she was some kind of star, and at last he said quietly,
"As it happens, Miss Black, this admittedly rude and intrusive unannounced visit was made because I wished to speak with you. I wonder if there is somewhere we might go where that would be possible."
"Yes," Druella said stiffly. "How about the parlour? I'll have Kip bring you tea. Would you like some elderflower ice cream, Tom? There's plenty left over from dinner. Or Kip could even make you a plate of hare, if you're hungry."
She gave him a withering look, a condescending look, and Bellatrix knew precisely why. Druella Rosier Black came from blood of the most illustrious pedigree. Her Pureblood bona fides were distinguished, ancient, and respected. She had been married since her teenage years and had been safely delivered of three healthy Pureblood witches, never once birthing a Squib like so many other Pureblood mothers, or meeting her end in childbirth. Here Druella stood, dignified and noble according to the code and ethos of her people. And before her was an aspirational Half-Blood wizard who had gone home from Hogwarts to a Muggle orphanage, a man whose mother had been the last of the Gaunts, a withered House that had been pathetic in its final days. Try as he might, in the eyes of a witch like Druella Rosier Black, Lord Voldemort would never be anything more than Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Actually," Bellatrix said confidently, "we can talk upstairs. Let's go, sir."
She started to lead him up the broad wooden staircase. In abject horror, Druella called after her,
"Where do you suppose you are going?"
Bellatrix stopped climbing and raised her eyebrows as she gave Druella a simpering look. "Upstairs, Mum."
Druella huffed and threw her hands up in resignation, whirling on her foot and stamping back toward the dining room. Poor Kip stood alone in the foyer in confusion, calling up to Bellatrix,
"Should Kip bring the tea and ice cream, Miss Bellatrix? The plate full of hare?"
"No need, Kip." Bellatrix danced up the stairs and heard Voldemort climbing after her. She led him down the short, dark corridor until she reached her bedroom, and she turned to the left, entering the room and leading him inside. She nervously shut the door, then, wondering whether she ought to do so or not, she turned the lock and cleared her throat, turning to face him. He glanced around for a moment, seeming to absorb that this was where she slept, and she heard him say quietly,
"I never came here."
"I beg your pardon, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked, but he shook his head firmly and just observed her bedroom. The walls were painted a simple dove grey, and the stout furniture was pitch-black lacquered wood. Her four-poster bed had black brocade curtains hanging that matched the black bedding, though her crisp sheets were white. She had a black and white Turkish rug on the floor, and the lampshades over her flickering wall sconces were black, as well. It was an appropriately gothic space, Bellatrix knew. Andromeda's room was coloured like a peacock, all jewel tones in turquoise, purple, emerald green, and gold. Narcissa's was lavender and sage with a heather grey neutral. Each room reflected each girl's personality. Bellatrix walked away from her door and gestured toward her white Tuscan marble fireplace and noted,
"Only a few months until I can light it myself… I usually have Kip do it on a rainy evening like this; the house gets so gloomy and cold. Please."
"Oh. Of course." Voldemort aimed his wand at the fireplace. "Incendio."
At once, flames burst to life in the fireplace, bathing Bellatrix's bedroom with a warm, lambent glow and then with deliciously radiant heat. Bellatrix dragged her teeth over her bottom lip and realised she only had one chair in this room. It was in the corner, too, somewhat awkwardly, near her bookshelf, for she liked to sit by the window, curled up with a cup of tea and a novel. Suddenly she wished she could whip out her wand and cast a Doubling Charm and move the chairs in front of the fire, but of course, she couldn't. Not until September. So she just stood, somewhat awkwardly, and asked Voldemort, just as her mother had done,
"What brings you to London, My Lord?"
"Bella," he said softly, and she noted then that his cheeks were stained dark, a fact that was evident even in the titian glow from the fire. He moved rather swiftly then, closing the gap between them in a few quick strides, his actions quick and anxious as though he were afraid he'd regret something if he hesitated. He brought his hands up to her face, his wand pressing lengthwise against Bellatrix's left cheek and feeling hard and cold there. She shut her eyes and just breathed in the feel of him looming over her, large and masculine, potent and sturdy, yet simultaneously gentle and kind in his touch. She leaned against the hand that cradled her jaw, and she heard herself let out a desperate little noise. Want.
Oh, she wanted him ferociously. She craved him like air now. She couldn't help herself. She shouldn't, she knew. He was her father's age, and she was just a schoolgirl. She'd sworn herself as his acolyte. He was a Half-Blood, as her mother liked to derisively point out. But he was so dynamic, his entire being trenchant and powerful in its intelligence, its charisma, its grace and its glamour. She was drawn to him as a moth to flame; his pull was magnetic, and she was powerless. Now she stood with his hands upon her, and she wanted nothing more in all the world suddenly than to whisper to him that she desperately wanted him to do something to her. She didn't even know exactly what she wanted. She was a bit frustrated by that, if she was honest. All she knew was that she wanted Lord Voldemort much, much more fiercely than she had ever wanted Rodolphus Lestrange. It felt almost dangerous, this acute sense of desire.
"Bella," she heard him whisper again, and she just nodded against his hands. There was quite a long pause, and finally, he asked, in so soft a murmur that she scarcely heard him, "Are you going to slap me?"
"No," she choked out. "Of course not, My Lord."
"Hmm." His voice was thick with something she couldn't identify then, and she was about to open her eyes when she felt his mouth touch hers. She gasped a little at the feel of it, of his lips brushing against her own, and her own fingers grappled desperately at the front of his rain cloak. She cinched her fists into the fabric, holding fast and letting out a cracked little noise of bewildered need as he kissed her again, pushing his mouth onto hers with just a bit more pressure. Careful, she thought. He was being so very careful, so very gentle with her. Perhaps he thought she did not know how to kiss a wizard. But of course, she and Rodolphus had kissed, many times. She knew what she was doing. She did not need a tutor, nor a gentle introduction, nor did she want one. Not now, not with Lord Voldemort. She wanted much more than what was happening right now.
Bravely, she tipped her head a bit and reached up with one hand to hold his cheek. She felt his scruff coming through a bit, and her mind was suddenly flooded with an image of him shaving in the morning. She grunted at the thought of such a thing, and she pushed her tongue between her lips and into his mouth. He groaned in surprise, and she heard his pale wand clatter to her wooden floor as he dropped it distractedly. His hands flew to the waist of her thin black cotton dress, and he squeezed tightly there before his trembling fingertips dragged up her ribcage. He began kissing her back in earnest, his tongue drawing circles on the roof of her mouth and suckling on her tongue a bit. When she nicked his lower lip with her teeth, he cried out a little, wrenching his face back, breathless and red-cheeked. He stared down at Bellatrix in complete shock, his dark eyes round as saucers, and she was quite surprised to see them looking just a little wet. Voldemort looked away then, swiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist. He was shaking badly, Bellatrix could see, and he seemed disturbed. She took a half step back from him and frowned.
"I've made you angry," she guessed, and though he shook his head vigorously, she apologised helplessly as she knit her hands together and shrugged. "I'm so sorry, sir; I thought you wanted… I didn't know… perhaps I misread the -"
"Bella." Voldemort hung his head just a little, his chest rising and falling deeply and rapidly as he seemed to be trying to find his breath. He finally cleared his throat and raised his face to her, looking her up and down and then turning his attention to her bed. He licked his lips and shut his eyes, and Bellatrix felt quite nervous. She had experience with kissing, but she was a virgin, and her parents and sisters were downstairs. She shifted where she stood and was about to try and tell him that they should probably stay off of her bed, but before she could, Voldemort wordlessly bent and picked his wand up off the ground. He distractedly spun it a few times and stared at the fire that he'd lit, and he murmured,
"You are too young to really know this, Bellatrix, but one thing you will learn as you get older is that some things are very much worth waiting for."
It was a bit cryptic, the way he'd said it, and Bellatrix found herself frowning a bit. Sex. Did he mean sex? She wouldn't be seventeen until September. He was trying to follow the rules when it came to such things. She glanced toward her bed and shrugged a little as she casually assured him,
"It's only a few months, My Lord, if such a thing is still something you want from me when you -"
He scoffed loudly, his wand stopping its twirling. He met her eyes, and his face looked sorrowful. Bellatrix felt more confused than ever when he nodded and said,
"Hm. A few months. Yes. And here I was thinking it was thirteen years. How silly of me."
Bellatrix felt some of the heat that had erupted between them earlier evaporating, and she was desperate to get it back. On instinct, she held out her hand, and Voldemort eyed it curiously. Finally, he put his fingers into Bellatrix's palm, and she walked backward, leading him, giving him the most seductive look she could muster. Finally, her back hit her heavy walnut door, and she stopped, and then Voldemort continued until he was almost flush against her, dominating her with his height and presence. Rodolphus had been physically enormous, but somehow Lord Voldemort felt bigger. It was the way he carried himself, Bellatrix thought. It was his confidence, his ego, his magnetism. She stared up at him in wonder, pressing his palms to his chest and beseeching him softly,
"Please, will you kiss me again?"
He seemed to consider the possibility of doing so for a long moment. He kept his wand at his side and brought his left hand to Bellatrix's neck. He stroked at her delicate skin with his knuckles, making her shiver, and she gulped as his fingertips danced along her throat and her decolletage. She tipped her head back against the door, cinching her fingers on his chest, and she moaned helplessly as he caressed her. Finally, he cupped the back of her skull in his hand, nestling his fingers in her raven curls, and angled her head just so, and he whispered in a bit of a hiss,
"You are criminally beautiful, Bella. You will be criminally so much more for me, you know."
"Please, please, please kiss me, My Lord," she whined, and he acquiesced. He was far more forceful then than he'd been before. He crushed her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue between her lips and tangling with hers in a dance. The kiss grew wild and aggressive. Teeth clacked a few times. Lips grew raw from nibbling. Her voice mewled helplessly and his occasionally groaned softly. Their hot breath mingled, fast and frantic. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought she might faint; her mind was whirling. Her ears were ringing and hot, and a deep, pooling, wet feeling of desire coiled in her lower belly and between her legs. Bellatrix felt Voldemort's right hand reach for her waist, his wand pressing length-wise against her ribcage as his left hand kept rubbing at her head. Suddenly she was very aware of his erection grinding against her abdomen, and the feel of that just made her more aroused than ever. Never in her life had she done something like this. Never had she wanted something like this. She glanced beyond Voldemort's shoulder toward her perfectly made bed, which seemed very, very inviting right now. Her eyes felt abruptly heavy with desire, her stomach churning with a passionate appetite she'd never known she could possess. She was about to suggest to him that they go to the bed, that no one would know he hadn't waited until September, but then she heard and felt someone attempting to open her bedroom door.
"Bellatrix Black?" barked her mother Druella. "Did you lock this door? Open up this instant, or I shall unlock it myself."
Voldemort flew away from Bellatrix's body and wrenched his eyes shurt, whirling away toward the window and immediately aiming his wand at himself. Bellatrix hurried to pull herself back a step, her heart still thudding rapidly and her breath still coming shallow and fast. She knew her lips were swollen and her cheeks were red. There was nothing to be done for that. She unlocked her bedroom door as calmly as she could and opened it, staring at her mother over the threshold. Druella glared at her with narrowed eyes and cocked her head to the side.
"Why was this door locked?" Druella snapped. Bellatrix shrugged and lied breathlessly,
"To keep Cissy and Andy out. They're so nosy, you know."
Druella seemed more suspicious than ever. She curled up her lips mirthlessly and called in a meaningful voice,
"Tom, thank you ever so much for stopping by. It is always so good to see you. I'm sure Cygnus will be meeting again with you soon at Malfoy Manor."
Suddenly Voldemort was behind Bellatrix, and she felt his fingertips on her shoulder. She stepped aside and his hand dropped, and she opened the door more so they could all step out into the corridor. Voldemort seemed to have collected himself and put himself to rights after the way he and Bellatrix had been furiously snogging against the door. She still felt incredibly frustrated at having been interrupted. She wasn't even certain where it had been leading, what would have happened if had continued, but it had felt so damned good, and then it had ended. Bellatrix pursed her lips in irritation as she followed Voldemort and her mother down the stairs and listened to Druella say in a terse but courtly tone,
"Don't let so much time pass before the next time I see you, Tom. It has been an age. I presume you'll be at Lucius Malfoy's birthday party, since you're boarding at the boy's house?"
Bellatrix grimaced at the absolute condescension, but Voldemort just said congenially,
"Of course! As it happens, Abraxas has named me the guest of honour alongside little Lucius. Let us hope for fine weather, so that he and his friends might enjoy good fun out in the gardens whilst we elder statesmen drink entirely too many rhubarb cordials and talk about the good old days. Hmm?"
"Quite," Druella replied tightly. "Until then, Tom. Kip, see Mr Riddle out."
Bellatrix stood on the bottom step and stared mournfully at Voldemort, who turned round from the door in the foyer and flashed her a little smile.
"When you beat me at Wizard's Chess, you were very aggressive. Proactive," he reminded her, and Bellatrix just nodded. Druella seemed confused, but Voldemort continued.
"There is to be dancing," he said softly, "at Lucius Malfoy's birthday fete. I wonder, Miss Black, if I might proactively claim at least one dance with you for myself. It would be an honour for me, you understand."
She very nearly fainted right there on the step. She felt her eyes sear like fire, and she just nodded desperately and whispered,
"Yes, of course."
"Right," he said firmly. "I shall see you both at the party, then. Miss Black. Druella." He let Kip show him out the door, and as he went onto the front stoop, into the dark night where it had finally stopped raining, he Disapparated in silence.