"Enter."

Voldemort stared out his office window into the twilight that had blanketed the gardens of Malfoy Manor in indigo velour. He twined his fingers around the handle of his bony yew wand at his side and waited calmly for the door of his office to open, and then he turned round to see Rudy Lestrange walking into the room. The other man carefully shut the door, appearing to try not to make much noise as he approached Voldemort's desk. Voldemort gestured for Rudy to sit, which the man did with a grateful nod.

Rudy Lestrange had been one year older than Tom Riddle at Hogwarts, at the time a broad-shouldered and tall Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team who was mindless in the classroom but brilliant at sport. He had such a promising future with Quidditch that everyone had been very, very certain he was destined for a long and glorious professional career as a Chaser - he desperately wanted to play for his childhood favourite team, the Wimbourne Wasps. But during Rudy's seventh year, toward the end of a match against Ravenclaw, he took a Bludger straight to his ribs, and it did so much damage to his bones and organs that he was unable to fly with agility or throw the Quaffle accurately thereafter. His dreams of professional Quidditch dashed, he got married straight away after graduation and began work at a solid Ministry position thanks to connections his father had.

"You'll be at Lucius Malfoy's little soiree this weekend, I presume," Voldemort said lightly, and Rudy Lestrange gave him a pleasant look.

"Yes, sir. Rodolphus and Rabastan are a few years older than him in Slytherin, as I believe you know."

"Yes. I'm aware," Voldemort said tightly, and Rudy continued,

"And of course Sadie is very good friends with Tullia Malfoy."

"Hmm." Voldemort pinched his lips. Sadie Crouch's wedding to Rudy Lestrange had actually occurred whilst Sadie was still at school, which had felt like a bit of a shock since both she and Tom Riddle had given one another their virginity as sixth-years. Now Voldemort just painted on an amused expression and informed Rudy,

"I should like very much to speak with your son Rabastan soon regarding my movement. I would like to talk politics with him, as it were. I think he'd be a fine addition to what's going on."

Rudy looked a bit confused but nodded. "Yes, of course. Rabastan is a good young wizard. And Rodolphus, my other boy?"

"Oh. Hm. Of course." Voldemort glanced toward the painting on his wall, pretending not to care about what Rudy was saying. He shrugged a little. "Perhaps. I confess I've not heard much of Rodolphus. Perhaps once he has established himself and is wed to a good Pureblood witch…"

"Ah. Yes. As regards that." Rudy cleared his throat roughly, and Voldemort feigned curiosity as he turned his face back toward Rudy. The other man's cheeks coloured, and he said a bit angrily, "Cygnus Black's girl just left my son, you know. She was leading him on. Told him the two of them were to be a decent Pureblood couple and all, and now she's left him out in the cold. Wretched creature, that Bellatrix Black."

"Wretched, you say." Voldemort scoffed gently. He drummed his fingers on his desk and smirked. "Well. Bellatrix is many things, but I hardly think her wretched. In any case. You have brought me something, I hope, Rudy."

"So I have, sir." Rudy Lestrange bent down and reached into his luxurious custom-made dragonhide briefcase. He pulled something out and then clasped the briefcase before setting two folders down on the desk before Voldemort. "The two dossiers you requested, sir. One Magical, one Muggle. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, whom we already knew were living in Godric's Hollow. Here's all the information you could need about them. Augustus Rookwood got me that information without any issue whatsoever."

"Very good. Thank you. And the Muggle family I asked you about? I assume ascertaining their whereabouts was, perhaps, a little more difficult?"

Voldemort had wished he'd had an adult Severus Snape here with him. He knew that Snape had been friends with Lily Evans in their youths; of course Snape would have known damned well where the Mudblood girl had grown up. All Voldemort had had to go off of was that Lily had been a childhood friend of Snape's, and he knew that Snape was from an industrial town in the Midlands called Cokeworth.

"We finally tracked her down," Rudy Lestrange said with a sly little smile. "Lily Evans, the little Muggle child you'd asked about. Her mother, the Evans woman, was born a Muggle, but as it happens, her grandmother was a Squib born into the Crouch family. A very distant cousin of my own dear wife Sadie. Rather burlesque, isn't it all? Hm. Well, it made tracking the family a bit easier, because the Ministry had records of that Squib relative. There are suspicions that one of the children in the house might be a Mudblood."

"Yes. Lily. She's due to be getting a Hogwarts letter in a few years' time. We'll see about that," Voldemort said tightly. He gave Rudy a meaningful look. "I've got my own reasons, you understand, for making certain that that filthy little ginger child is never anywhere near Hogwarts, Rudy. I appreciate the reconnaisance."

"It's no problem at all," Rudy said impassively. "They live on a street called Spinner's End in Cokeworth, near a wizarding household, so I might advise caution, sir, in whatever you do. It's the -"

"Snapes. Yes." Voldemort reached for the dossier on the Evans family. He met Rudy Lestrange's eyes and nodded. "Tobias Snape himself is a Muggle, but his wife is Eileen Prince, a Pureblood. They've got a little boy, haven't they? What's he called again? Hm… Severus, was it?"

He feigned ignorance, for he thought that seeming too knowledgeable about all of this might arouse some unwanted suspicion in Rudy Lestrange. He wanted to seem interested and very much as though he had serious plans in mind, but not as though he'd done any of this before. He opened the dossier and glanced through the moving black and white photographs that his spies had taken of Spinner's End in Cokeworth for him, pictures of the Evans house. Voldemort memorised the number outside, number 17, and got a good sense for what the pitiful little garden out front looked like, with its rusted fence and its weeds. He took a look at the windows at the brick house, studying the tired floral curtains blowing in the rainy wind,

"Thank you, Rudy," Voldemort shut the dossier and turned to the other folder. He studied for a moment about Fleamont Potter and his wife Euphemia, who had unexpectedly birthed the couple's only child James in March of 1960 in surprising old age. The couple, who had lived bathed in fortune after Fleamont had found success with Sleekeazy's, lived in a stately stone manor between Old Cleeve and Godric's Hollow. They had two House-Elves, owing to their wealth and the size of their property. They were also known to have Aethonan winged horses on their land, with several pet premium Kneazles they'd bought from top breeders kept at their home. Voldemort shut the dossier on the Potters and nodded to Rudy Lestrange, who gave him an expectant look.

"Everyone in these dossiers will soon either have disappeared or will have turned up dead," Voldemort noted. "I trust you and Augustus Rookwood will maintain secrecy about why that is."

"Indeed, sir," Rudy confirmed, opening his mouth to speak again. Before he could say anything, Voldemort cut in and snapped,

"Because you know, if it became obvious that someone had betrayed me, had forsaken my good will, I would never in a thousand years let such a thing go unpunished."

He let his voice die with a sharp bite, and there was heavy silence for just a moment between himself and Rudy Lestrange. Voldemort watched as Rudy blinked quickly a few times and gave a frantic nod.

"Y-your secrets are safe with me, sir."

"Oh, good." Voldemort curled his lips up in a mirthless little grin, "because I absolutely dread the notion of having to exterminate either of my dearest allies over some silly Mudbloods or because of Fleamont Potter and his wife and son. Hmm?"

"Quite so," croaked Rudy Lestrange weakly. Voldemort gathered up the Ministry dossiers Rudy had brought him, and he set them off to the side as he gave Rudy a crisp nod.

"Thank you again for your quality investigative work, old man. I look forward to seeing you and Rabastan at Lucius Malfoy's birthday party. And your boy Rodolphus, of course… and, as always, dear Sadie."

He let his gaze rest heavily on Rudy's, and the other man shrank back, clearly intimidated. Rudy nodded, frowning deeply. Finally, Rudy rose and picked up his briefcase.

"I shall see you at the birthday party, sir," he confirmed. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Voldemort murmured, watching Rudy Lestrange dash from the office.

Lord Voldemort tingled with the fresh exaltation that always washed over him after a kill. On this night, he was feeling practically fustian with the euphoria from having extirpating the entire Potter clan. He'd used unassisted human flight, which he'd taught himself after years of extensive practise on the Continent, to drift rount the windows of the Potters' manor, silently opening the windows and drifting into the rooms where the family was sleeping. One by one, he'd murdered the family. Fleamont Potter had been snoring loudly and had slumped into silence with a flash of jade green light, and Euphemia had immediately followed in clamant, emerald death. When Voldemort had flown round and found James Potter's bedroom, the boy had been lying on his side, curled up a bit and obliviously lost to sleep. For a half second, Voldemort had hesitated, wondering if he was going to time travel again, if his Killing Curse would rebound like it had with James' son Harry Potter. But this was very necessary, Voldemort had told himself. Killing James Potter, and also Lily Evans, was the only way to be absolutely certain that the events of Halloween 1981 did not come to pass. For a brief moment, Voldemort had panicked, wondering if he was about to undo everything and erase himself, if he was going to somehow expunge his own soul from having rocketed back from 1981 to 1968. Finally, he'd just aimed his yew wand at James Potter and hissed out a Killing Curse in a confident whisper, and green light had jetted forth from his wand and rocketed round the boy's body. He'd been unmoving then, most definitively dead, and Voldemort had Disapparated at once, coming to in the street called Spinner's End in Cokeworth.

"Alohomora." Voldemort unlocked the Muggles' door at Number 17 and pushed the door open, striding quickly into the shabby brick house with his pale wand extended. He looked round quickly as he slammed the door shut behind him, and almost immediately, a scrawny pale man with sparse whiskers came careening down the stairs.

"What the blazes?" the man cried. "Who the devil is there?"

Voldemort gave him no real reply; he just jammed his wand through the air at the man and snarled out roughly, "Avada Kedavra!"

Lily Evans' father lurched backward as the Killing Curse slammed into him, his body tilting awkwardly and then crashing down the staircase and landing in an ungainly heap on the landing near Voldemort's feet. Suddenly a woman let out a bloodcurdling scream and shrieked,

"Nash! What's happened? Nash, are you all right?"

"Obviously not," Voldemort smirked, holding out his wand arm and waiting for the Muggle woman to stumble hysterically down the staircase. She fell hard onto her knees, her threadbare rose-patterned nightgown billowing about her skinny legs, and she sobbed as she clutched at her husband's face. She looked up at Voldemort and shook her head, looking utterly terrified as she demanded,

"Who are you? What are you doing? What have you done to my Nash? Please, please don't hurt Lily or Petunia…"

Voldemort's chest quivered for a second. This felt off. This felt rather like when Lily Potter had pleaded for Harry's life in 1981, when she'd fallen victim to Voldemort's Killing Curse but then had seemed to somehow impart some form of protection or shield around her toddler son through her wild desolation. Her mother now sobbed and pleaded with Voldemort, grasping at the hem of his robes, shaking her head, mumbling at him to take her but to spare her daughters Lily and Petunia. Voldemort realised that he might somehow accidentally doom himself by casting a traditional Killing Curse on the dreadful woman, and he impulsively kicked her away with a swift kick and slashed his wand through the air five or six times down toward her, incanting in a growl,

"Diffindo! DIFFINDO! Diffindo Trio. Diffindo. Diffindo."

His Severing Charms sliced and lacerated Mrs Evans' body, creating deep gashes that tore clear across her torso, from her scalp over her face to her neck, straight around her abdomen, and even across her neck. Blood gurgled forth from the witch's gangly form and quickly stained the dilapidated taupe carpet. Voldemort glanced up to see two shocked, horrified faces on the staircase - the daughters, Lily and Petunia. One, a girl with raven hair who appeared stricken with terror and had her face buried in her hands, was peering through trembling fingers and was rocking back and forth. Her sister, a bit smaller and younger with pale freckled skin, russet hair, and wide green eyes, had her arms wrapped around her sister, and was glaring down at Voldemort with a blend of dread and fury. Voldemort quirked up his lips and nodded.

"Hello, Lily," he said quietly, listening just a bit as the girl's mother choked out her dying breath on the rug. Lily and Petunia clutched one another's hands and started to run up the stairs, to try and escape somehow, but Voldemort barked a laugh and shook his head. He aimed his wand at the girls and hit them with twin Stunning Spells. Lily, and then Petunia, slipped and tumbled down the stairs and landed near their father's corpse. Voldemort stalked around the body of the mother who had bled out, the body of the father, Nash Evans. He loomed over the Stunned girls, aiming his wand down at dusky-haired Petunia and murmured intently,

"Avada Kedavra."

The Muggle sister died swiftly, life leaving her eyes as her limbs went limp and her chest stopped moving. Voldemort turned to Lily, staring down into her green eyes, and tipped his head.

"Your son transported me back thirteen years in time," he noted softly. "I ought to be angry, but I'm grateful, as it happens. I wouldn't have her, if it weren't for your malevolent progeny, Lily. I wouldn't have Bella, or at least, a chance at her. So, I should thank you, perhaps. But instead, I am going to kill you. Hmm. With such strange providence does the wheel of fortune turn. Avada Kedavra."

He snapped his wand through the air toward the girl, sending a beam of beryl green glowing Magical extinction straight for her. The Killing Curse swallowed up Lily Evans, who went still and utterly silent, her green eyes instantly dull and lifeless, her pale body ductile but unmoving. She was gone, he knew at once, and a sense of sweet relief anointed him as he broke into a triumphant grin. He began cleaning up his mess, Vanishing the bodies of the Evans family into Non-Being, disappearing their corpses so that it was like they'd never been born, had never died. He Siphoned up the mother's blood from the rug on the floor, and soon enough it was like nothing bad had ever happened to the Evanses. Everyone would be profoundly confused, he thought. No one, Muggle or otherwise, would understand what on Earth had happened to the family in Cokeworth who had simply evaporated, who had seemingly abandoned their home or been kidnapped, who had disappeared without a trace. Voldemort quite liked it that way.

Only he knew the full truth of it all - that Lily Evans had been the Mudblood mother of Harry Potter thirteen years from now, that she would go on to defy him as a member of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, that her son Harry would be prophesied to destroy Lord Voldemort, and that on the night of Halloween, 1981, when Voldemort killed James Potter, and then Lily, and finally little Harry, the Dark Lord would be transmitted back in time. Only Voldemort knew that truth. And now both James Potter and Lily Evans were dead, so Harry Potter could never be born at all, and the awful prophecy made by Sybil Trelawney would never be spoken. The betrayal by the Potters, the Secret-Keeping by Peter Pettigrew, the years of losing Death Eaters to Dumbledore's own volunteers and the struggle to achieve his own power, over a decade of pining for Bellatrix without ever touching her… none of that was real now. That was all a different existence, Voldemort thought. His new life, this life to which he'd been brought, was a fresh opportunity, a second chance.

And he did not intend on wasting it.

He Disapparated from the Evans house, reappearing outside Malfoy Manor in the velutinous black night and striding through the gate toward Abraxas' home.

"Oh, Tom. I see you've got yourself some firewhisky. I wanted to be certain Dobby was circulating about and getting everyone's drinks for them," Tullia Malfoy fretted, stepping up to Voldemort in the ballroom. Unfortunately for Lucius Malfoy, it was absolutely pouring rain, which had put something of a damper on his birthday party. The plans for broomstick races and other childish outdoor activities had been scrapped in favour of a more staid indoor event that Tullia had frantically thrown together early this morning. Now she seemed frazzled and anxious, fretting with the skirts of her powder blue peau de soie gown. Her golden hair had been curled into ringlets and clipped back with very expensive-looking trinkets of gold, aquamarine, and amethyst. Her face was, perhaps, overly made up, with a bit too much blue eyeshadow and lipstick that was too pink for a witch in her forties. It was all a bit gauche, Voldemort thought as he sipped at his firewhisky, but he said in a conciliatory and even warm tone,

"For what it's worth, Tullia, you make for a lovely hostess. And the ballroom is stunning; one would have no idea the party was moved last-minute. Promise."

Tullia glanced about frenetically. The ballroom at Malfoy Manor, which suffered even in the best of times from being much too dark and stoic, had been adorned with flashy silver spangles and stars. Twinkling enchanted fairy lights glimmered throughout the space, along with hovering silver and gold balloons and white and silver cut paper banners that had been strung about. Of course, Tullia hadn't done any of the manual labour. That had all been Dobby the House-Elf, who was now run ragged fetching everyone's drinks for them. Voldemort sipped again from his firewhisky, holding it up a little to Tullia and reassuring her,

"This is my second drink, Tullia. All's well."

"Good," she huffed. She glanced over her shoulder to where her husband Abraxas stood chatting with two married but slightly younger witches, Qamar Shafiq and Nessa Rosier. She scowled deeply, gripping her own lemon basil cocktail more tightly and then drinking from it as if she suddenly intended on becoming intoxicated. She made a little noise of irritation and then said in a low voice to Voldemort,

"Enjoy yourself, Tom."

She turned and walked off without another word, and Voldemort frowned as he stared at Abraxas. The man seemed oblivious about Tullia's anger and discomfort; he was tossing his head back and merrily chuckling at something that Nessa Rosier was emphatically saying. Voldemort pursed his lips and considered going over there to intervene, but then a voice from beside him said,

"Mr Riddle! Hasn't it been time everlasting since you and I have seen one another?"

Voldemort whirled, nearly spilling his firewhisky, at the sound of Iris Greengrass' voice. But, then, she wasn't Iris Greengrass anymore. She was Iris Flint now, having married Silvester Flint after leaving Hogwarts. Voldemort hadn't seen Iris in many years, but he still vividly remembered what she'd looked and felt like beneath him in a Hogwarts dormitory bed in her youth, nubile and innocent with grey eyes and silvery hair. She stood now with a witch beside her who looked only a bit younger, just as beautiful, with hair that was a darker blonde and eyes that were a darker blue, and she gushed,

"Tom Riddle, this is my daughter, Josephine Flint. Named, of course, for her illustrious ancestor -"

"Josephina Flint. Of course. The early 19th century Minister for Magic." Voldemort tipped his head and smirked. "I seem to recall that Minister Flint was known for a distinct anti-Muggle bias during her tenure. Isn't that right, Iris?"

Iris laughed a little and shrugged. "What can I say, Tom? We Greengrasses and Flints are stubbornly stuck in the wizarding ways. From what my husband and I hear, so are you."

"You hear correctly," Voldemort murmured. He trained his attention on her daughter, Josephine. "Are you still at Hogwarts, Miss Flint, or have you finished your education?"

"I'll be a sixth-year Slytherin in September," the girl said, so meekly and softly that Voldemort actually had to lean forward a bit to hear her over the cacophony of the party. He nodded and gave her a little smile, feeling compelled for some reason to blurt out,

"So you're the same as Miss Black, then."

When Josephine Flint looked confused, opening her mouth like she wanted to question him, Voldemort amended,

"I have recently become better acquainted with my old friend Cygnus Black III's eldest daughter, Bellatrix. She, also, is a rising sixth-year Slytherin."

"Yes. She is." Josephine looked a bit uncomfortable, shifting on her feet a little. She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes settled on someone. Voldemort followed her gaze. Rodolphus Lestrange. He was talking with his brother Rabastan and Lucius Malfoy and a few other Hogwarts boys from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But Voldemort was very, very certain who Josephine was looking at. She was looking at Rodolphus, and suddenly Voldemort understood. When Bellatrix had broken things off with Rodolphus, the boy must have quickly tried to snatch up another suitable girl, and she had apparently been Iris' daughter. Amusing.

"There is to be dancing," Voldemort found himself saying. "I suppose Mr Lestrange will dance with you. I'm certain he would be pleased to do so."

Iris glared at him for a moment then, and her daughter Josephine gave him a sceptical look. But Voldemort just raised his tumbler of firewhisky to the witches and bid them a good day, and he stalked off toward the long banquet tables of hors d'oeuvres. He grabbed himself a small plate and put several oysters and a wedge of lemon, a few smoked trout croquettes, and a goat cheese stuffed date. He carried the plate and his tumbler of firewhisky to a high top table, upon which Dobby had carefully arranged self-washing tablecloths and flickering decorative votive candles in silver bowls. He leaned against the table and just watched people cavort at the party for awhile; some popular wizarding music, swinging and a bit raucous for Voldemort's taste, began playing, and the younger guests took to the floor to dance and laugh.

The older witches and wizards at the party pulled back and just chatted in little cliques as their children frolicked on the dance floor. Some went to the table with the large punch bowl and the glasses pre-filled with lemon basil cocktails to fetch themselves a drink; others meandered over to the food to get a bite to eat. Once in a while, a passer-by waved and nodded or said a quick hello to Voldemort, but no one stopped for long to talk. It was much too loud with the boisterous music for formal conversation, and, anyway, most of these people knew each other very well or were at least distantly related, and to them, Lord Voldemort was still the aspirational Tom Riddle, a man who talked an ambitious and passionate game when it came to politics but lacked the bona fides to even really be at a party like this.

Voldemort didn't much mind. He took the opportunity to eat the food he'd put on his plate and to stare at Bellatrix, who was swaying a bit fumblingly at the edge of the dance floor with a small group of Slytherin girls. Voldemort brought one of his oysters up to his lips, tipped it back, and bravely and confidently drank it from its shell, relishing its oceanic flavour. As he chewed the oyster meat, he noticed the way Bellatrix had come dressed in black, when so many of the other girls wore pale, summery shades. She was wearing a high-necked dress with a lace bodice, its sleeves short and draped around Bellatrix's thin arms. The dress nipped at her narrow waist and was belted before it gave way to wispy black skirts that reached below her knees. She wore perilously high-heeled shoes, which surprised Voldemort. That had to have been Druella's way of torturing her. In the many years he'd known Bellatrix, she'd always hated heels. She'd never worn them to weddings or to parties that Voldemort could remember. Her idea of dress shoes had always been a reliable pair of simple black ballet flats, much to Druella's chagrin.

Her curls had been pulled into an elaborately braided style, with a black ribbon binding it all, and around her wrist he could see a diamond bracelet that he knew had belonged to her great-grandmother, Violetta Bulstrode Black. He knew about that bracelet, because Bellatrix had worn it at her wedding to Rodolphus, and then Narcissa had worn it at her wedding to Lucius. Then Bellatrix had worn the bracelet again, years later, at a New Year's Eve party where everyone had gotten a bit too drunk and Bellatrix and Voldemort had gone out into the corridor and spoken quietly in private about stupid things like his cufflinks and her diamond bracelet.

His stomach lurched and pulled all of a sudden, for he was acutely aware that he needed to act decisively if he wanted not to lose his second, and almost certainly final, opportunity to make Bellatrix his own. She'd been his, of course, for thirteen years. He'd tattooed her arm with the Dark Mark and summoned her for service time and time again. She'd murdered for him in cold blood. She'd tortured for him. She'd whispered behind her mask in the darkness, over and over again, Master, on the battlefield and then in his office. She had unequivocally belonged to Lord Voldemort. But at the end of it all, he'd never kissed her, and she'd always gone home to Rodolphus.

He rather desperately needed things to go differently this time round.

Voldemort stared down at his plate of hors d'oeuvres, at his smoked trout croquettes and his goat cheese stuffed date. The gourmet food suddenly didn't seem very appetising, and Voldemort sighed before picking up his half-empty tumbler of Blishen's and gulping down the rest of the firewhisky. He set down the empty glass and walked away from his food, knowing that House-Elf Magic would make the high top table clear itself in a moment. He pulled out his wand and surreptitiously aimed it at himself, casting a Peppermint Crisp Charm that refreshed his breath and cleaned out his mouth from any vestige of oyster or whisky. He tucked his wand away again and stalked through the ballroom, nodding in feigned friendly greeting to Sadie Crouch Lestrange where she flashed him a smile on Rudy's arm, and clapping his associate Augustus Rookwood on the shoulder with a brief hello as he passed by.

Bellatrix saw him coming, and as he neared her, she said something quiet to the young Slytherin girls she was dancing with. Voldemort knew a few of them; some would grow up to marry wizards who would become devoted Death Eaters for him. He recognised the oddly adolescent face of Hyacinth Avery, slightly plump with a slightly angry expression permanently fixed on her features. She would go on to marry Amycus Carrow in the life Voldemort had lived, and though Amycus had fought valiantly as a Death Eater, Hyacinth had not fared nearly so well. She'd birthed a baby in 1973, a weak child whose traumatic birth had left Hyacinth in terrible health. A year later, both the child and Hyacinth were dead, and Amycus Carrow had been left to focus on the war. Voldemort gave the young witch a hard look and then turned his attention back to Bellatrix. She gave an apologetic sort of look to Hyacinth Avery and the other two girls with her, and she started to walk away from the dance floor and approached Voldemort. She grinned broadly at him, and once she'd reached him, she called rather loudly over the obnoxious music,

"My Lord, I don't suspect I shall be able to grant you that dance I'd promised you. I'm sorry."

He scowled. "Why not?"

She laughed a little and glanced to where her young compatriots were spinning and rocking on the parquet, then looked out to the ballroom where the older witches and wizards were milling about drinking and looking on with a bored sort of collective resentment. She gestured to it all and noted, "Lucius said he made Mrs Malfoy promise not to play any slow music. So this is what the rest of the party's going to look like, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Voldemort felt his brows furrow. He felt like he'd been astigmatic about it all, which was embarrassing, and he felt his cheeks go a little warm. He'd envisioned giving a dignified toast for young Lucius, who was now obnoxiously tossing his silver hair to the music as his Slytherin schoolmates cheered him on and a gaggle of teenaged girls linked arms and swayed to the music. Voldemort put his lips in a line and tried to wash from his mind the foolish vision he'd had for days now of sweeping Bellatrix into an elegant waltz and murmuring down to her that she looked absolutely beautiful. He wanted to talk with her, to compliment her, to touch her. But here they were, at a lawless little birthday party thundering with popular music, where everyone seemed preoccupied with either manic dancing or with swilling down cocktails and oysters, and Voldemort felt profound irritation. He suddenly had a wild idea, then thought the better of it, but Bellatrix reached boldly for his sleeve and leaned toward him, saying in a loud voice over the din of the music,

"We could always go to your office for a little break from all this, My Lord."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then glanced over his shoulder to where her parents stood in a far part of the ballroom. They appeared to be at a high top table with Abraxas and Tullia Malfoy, along with Dorea Black Potter, who had come without her husband Charlus. Bellatrix's parents were paying absolutely no attention to any of their three daughters; Narcissa was out on the dance floor with some girls nearby Lucius, and Andromeda was laughing in a pack eating some food. Voldemort's heart picked up just a little as he realised he and Bellatrix had a window of opportunity, and he glanced back at her and nodded. Without another word, the two of them walked very quickly out of the ballroom, so swiftly and confidently that nobody seemed to give any heed to the fact that they'd gone. No one followed them down the corridor once they'd left, though of course the portraits on the wall whispered to one another as they passed. Voldemort walked with long strides, and Bellatrix had to trot to keep up. She yelped at one point, and Voldemort whirled over his shoulder to see that she'd tripped in her obscenely high heels trying to chase after him. He approached her, and she bent down and frustratedly yanked the shoes off of her feet as she mumbled,

"Bloody stupid shoes… why on Earth any witch would wear such damned idiotic things on purpose, I've no idea…"

"I'll fix them for you in my office," Voldemort promised as she took hold of them and plodded barefoot beside him down the corridor. Finally, they reached his office door, and when they did, the Magical locks and wards were dismantled at once for their Master. Voldemort shoved the door open and admitted Bellatrix, and as soon as she was inside, he shut the door and took a shaking breath to collect himself. He could still hear Lucius' party thudding down the hall, and as he shut his eyes and heard people laughing and talking loudly, heard dishes rattling and people clapping every now and then, he honed his focus on the quiet stillness of his office. He opened his eyes and stepped further inside, moving toward Bellatrix as she breathed somewhat heavily from having run after him in the corridor.

"Bella," he said gently, and she nodded as she hummed,

"My Lord."

He wrapped his left hand around her jaw and his right hand around her waist and pulled her close, which felt so good he wanted to cry just a little. For thirteen years, he'd wanted little more from her than a single kiss, a single moment of real intimacy. And here she was, young and available and tangled up in his arms, and he brushed his lips against hers and whispered onto her skin,

"It is a crime. You've been wicked; you've created a scandal."

Bellatrix's breath hitched, and she seemed confused until Voldemort kissed her a bit more deeply, dragging his hand up her ribcage and massaging the back of her neck, and then he clarified breathlessly,

"You were unethically gorgeous in that ballroom, Bellatrix Black, and you shamed every other witch at that party."

"Oh." She gasped a little, and he heard her silly high-heeled shoes fall to the ground as she lost her grip on them. He pushed on her waist, and she stumbled backward a few steps until her body hit Voldemort's desk. She was kissing him back quite eagerly, all of a sudden. She was moaning like an unabashed harlot, her thin fingers desperately convulsing on Voldemort's crisp white tuxedo shirt and rumpling the fabric. He shoved her face aside with his jaw as she scrambled up onto the desk, planting his hands onto the polished wood on either side of her, and he went straight for her neck. He lapped at the flesh beneath her ear, suckling and pulling at her, dragging his tongue from the crook of her neck up to her ear and then playing with the lobe of her ear between his lips. He huffed a breath onto her skin that made her shiver and cry out a little, her hands flying in desperation to the sides of his head. Before Voldemort knew what was happening, he felt his right hand yanking up the hem of her wispy black skirts, trailing up the flesh of her delicate inner thigh, toying with her skin by dragging his knuckles around as she writhed on the desk and seethed through clenched teeth with her head thrown back in ecstasy. She groaned softly and whispered two sweet words - My Lord - over and over again once Voldemort's fingers reached the soaked exterior of her knickers, and when he kept dancing his hand around the area, playing with her through the sodden material, he thought she might melt or explode or both. His cock ached and throbbed in his tuxedo trousers, eager for escape and release, his veins hot with the fire of want.

But then Voldemort froze, his right hand cupping the outside of Bellatrix's womanhood through her knickers, feeling the wet heat of her evident arousal, watching her helplessly pant and gasp as she keened for him. He couldn't move suddenly, as he realised just what he was doing. He wanted her. Oh, good heavens, did he want her. And he could take her. She would certainly allow him, right this moment, to pull off her knickers and bury himself to the hilt inside of her. He trembled a little at the thought of that, at the idea of spilling himself inside of Bellatrix, the witch he'd coveted and craved for thirteen years. But he couldn't do that. It was improper; laws aside, Voldemort liked to consider himself above the sort of voracious depravity that led grown wizards to use very young witches' bodies like this. So he begrudgingly, slowly pulled his fingertips down Bellatrix's inner thigh, not wanting to make her feel as though he did not desire her. He stroked at her neck, where he'd bruised her up a little bit with his too-rough kisses, and he murmured,

"I've marked you up. Shall I heal it?"

"No," Bellatrix panted, staring at him with hunger in her wide, dark eyes. "Thank you, anyway."

Her gaze flicked to his trousers, and he knew his erection was quite evident. He ignored it, and, wisely, so did Bellatrix. But as she arranged her skirts about her, she asked quietly,

"Can I please attend to you properly, My Lord? Shall I serve you now?"

He couldn't breathe then. He just stared at her for a moment. There she was, he thought, blinking. There was his Bellatrix, the witch who had pined after him for over a decade. There was the precious weapon, the beloved servant, the inestimable acolyte. This was his Bellatrix before him now, pink-cheeked with arousal from his kisses and from his touch, eager to make him feel satisfied and happy as her commanding Dark Lord. Voldemort shut his eyes, utterly overwhelmed by her for a little moment, and then he whispered,

"Consider me well pleased, Bella."

"Shall we go back to the party?" she suggested cautiously. "Surely people have noticed we've gone."

He didn't care, he thought. He didn't care if people had seen him walk out of the ballroom with Bellatrix, if people had been counting the minutes the two of them had been gone together. But he nodded and helped Bellatrix off the desk, holding her face in his hands and giving her a few more delicate kisses on her lips before she bent down to pick up her dastardly high heels. Voldemort seized the shoes from her and pulled out his wand, and Bellatrix looked uneasy until Voldemort smirked and cast a few simple Transfiguration charms to take off the heels and make the shoes flat and comfortable. Bellatrix slipped them on in wonder and twirled around, making her black skirts swish as she giggled a little. She grinned at Voldemort, setting his heart to thumping in his chest, and she whispered her thanks.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Black," Voldemort said, and he meant it. He walked out of his office then, returning with Bellatrix to the party as his mind whirled with thoughts of dead Potters and dead Evanses and the future he dreamed of having as the rightly arisen Dark Lord, with Bellatrix Black at his side.

Author's Note: Thank you for your patience in waiting for this update. It was my birthday, so I was slightly delayed in writing! :) Thanks as always for feedback.