By the time people were making their way out of Malfoy Manor with cheerful farewells and compliments to Tullia, with repeated congratulations to the Blacks and to Voldemort, nearly everyone was just a little tipsy at best. The engagement party had gone on for hours, thanks in part to Tullia Malfoy's successful party planning. The food had been exquisite and delicious. The music from the enchanted strings had been beautiful, and guests had danced until their feet had grown weary. Voldemort himself had taken Bellatrix onto the dance floor time and time again, his steps getting more unsteady each time as firewhisky and Champagne took their toll through the night.

It was nearly midnight by the time Bellatrix pleaded with him in a low murmur to take her to Praelia House. By then he was completely drunk, and both of them were utterly aroused, having spent most of the party engaged in rather blatant public passion that had bordered at times on the obscene. At one point toward the end of the party, when the firewhisky had made the ballroom spin and Voldemort had become vaguely nauseated from his drinking, he'd found himself desperately kissing Bellatrix on the dance floor until she'd giggled and pulled back and whispered to him that everyone was watching. He didn't care. Didn't they realise he'd wanted this witch for thirteen long years? Had these people no notion of what he had been waiting for all of this time, what he was finally going to be receiving?

"Cygnus," Voldemort huffed at last, pulling Bellatrix with him up to her parents and then wrapping her up protectively like he'd been doing all night. Druella raised her thin, arched brows and sipped delicately at her red wine as she observed the sight of the drunken wizard she'd suggested her daughter marry with Bellatrix in his arms. Of course, Bellatrix was completely sober, being much too young for such vices as firewhisky and Champagne. Voldemort kissed Bellatrix's curls and touched his cheek to the top of her head for a moment, feeling dizzy and trying to calculate just how much he'd had to drink tonight. He'd completely lost track of all the whisky and wine and Champagne. It had been too much, he knew. Entirely too much. Oh, well. Cygnus and Druella just stared expectantly at Voldemort, who announced plainly to them, "I'm taking Bellatrix home. I'm going to show her our house. Hmm."

Druella scowled deeply and leaned over to Cygnus, whispering something in her husband's ear. Cygnus murmured something back to her, so quietly that Voldemort couldn't hear him over the music from the strings. But Voldemort reminded them rather obnoxiously,

"I'm sure you both remember from school that I'm a skilled Legilimens."

"My Lord," Bellatrix gasped, and he wondered why she'd reacted that way. She pulled out of his arms just a little and suggested softly to him, "Perhaps Mr Malfoy has a potion to sober -"

"No. I'm fine. My apologies," Voldemort amended. Cygnus looked to Bellatrix and Voldemort and said quite stiffly,

"We aren't stupid, Tom."

"I never said you were," Voldemort replied in a smooth tone. "I think you are very well aware of how I feel toward your eldest daughter, Cygnus, and what my intentions are toward her, and why it is I want to take her to the house I've bought for her."

"With our family's money," Druella reminded him with a sharp bite. "You'll remember, Tom, that this marriage is not only so that you can have yourself a pretty little wife. You're getting access to an entire swath of society and a good deal of gold you would not otherwise have. Some gratitude would serve you well."

Voldemort straightened his back and nodded, gently stroking Bellatrix's arm. "She's safe with me. You know she is. She'll be home in the morning."

"Do as you please. I can't stop you," Druella sighed, turning and walking away without another word. Cygnus looked profoundly uncomfortable, but Bellatrix said to him,

"It was a very nice party, wasn't it?"

"Yes, darling. A very nice party." Cygnus chewed his lip hard and sipped a tiny bit from his Butterbeer. "Goodnight, then. Be careful Apparating, Tom. You seem a little…"

"Drunk? Ha. I've never Splinched yet, Cygnus. Don't worry." Voldemort smirked. "Goodnight."

They said their farewells to Tullia and Abraxas Malfoy, thanking them both for the beautiful and expensive engagement party, and then Voldemort wordlessly led Bellatrix out of Malfoy Manor, down the corridor past his office and down the flight of stairs to the foyer. He tripped and almost fell in his drunken state, hearing Bellatrix giggle wildly at him, but he righted himself and then led her through the gardens as he pulled out his wand and admitted,

"I told your father I'd never Splinched Apparating. That much is true. What's also true is I've never Apparated when I've been this drunk. So. Best of luck not losing a limb."

She laughed again, rather uproariously, and Voldemort reached the point beyond the gate where guests were allowed to Disapparate from Malfoy Manor. He took her hand and, without another thought, took her home by Side-Along Apparition. They whipped hard to the right, disappearing into the pinching black void, into the dark cold for just a moment. When they came to, Voldemort was so sick from Apparating so drunk that he stumbled and gagged, very nearly vomiting as his head spun and his stomach lurched. He aimed his wand at himself and muttered quickly,

"Nonemesis. Ugh. That was awful. I feel -."

"M-My Lord?"

"Hold on a moment. My head's a mess." He stayed bent over, certain he was going to be sick on the grass, but then Bellatrix sounded frightened as she said,

"I think perhaps we've come to the wrong place, Master."

He scowled and forced his swimming head up, feeling the last tumbler of firewhisky he'd drunk settle into his veins. He sniffed, taking in the sight before him. There were Muggle automobiles parked in the circle drive in front of the house before him, which was illuminated by electric lights. That was certainly what had set off Bellatrix to thinking this was the wrong place, and she was right to be suspicious. This was the wrong place. At least, in this lived experience, this was the wrong place.

He'd brought her to Danby.

He'd brought her to the manor house in Danby in North Yorkshire where he'd spent years hiding out during the war, the place he'd called home for much longer than Malfoy Manor. This was where he'd come back to after a battle, after a meeting. This was the house he'd returned to time and time again the first time he'd known Bellatrix. But it wasn't home here; there were Muggles living here. And, a cold rush of panic informed Voldemort with urgency, he could not let her know that this had been his home in another life. He needed her to continue thinking he was where he was meant to be. So he just shook his head and choked a laugh.

"Fucking hell. I'm so drunk. I'm sorry. I don't know what I did. So much for Deliberation. My Ministry teacher would be ashamed. Here. Take hold of my hand and I'll do it properly this time. Mmm. Concentrate." He said that last word to himself, though he spoke it out loud, and he shut his eyes as Bellatrix seized his hand. He thought as pointedly and determinedly as possible about the stout red brick of Praelia House, about the verdant, ambrosial forested grounds, and he brushed his thumb over Bellatrix's before surging their bodies into the ether. In the split second of nonexistence, he panicked that he was traveling through time again, that he might lose her. But then, very abruptly, he was on his feet, standing before the home he'd procured for Bellatrix in Worcestershire.

She gasped in wonder and took a few steps up the path toward Praelia House, her fashionable black gown trailing behind her a little. Her curls blew about in the night breeze, and as she stared at the house, Voldemort stared at her. His eyes tingled oddly then as he recalled with horror the night he'd witnessed her marry Rodolphus Lestrange. She'd been so incredibly beautiful, dressed in a ludicrously pretentious white gown, but she'd sounded a bit distant and numb as she'd recited her vows to her husband. Lord Voldemort had stared on in consternation as Bellatrix had accepted a bite of her wedding cake from Rodolphus; he'd glared in revulsion as the two of them had preened in their first dance before the crowd. And for many years after that, Voldemort had ached for Bellatrix so gravely that it had caused him physical agony.

But now, here she was, young and marvelous and new, his. She glanced over her shoulder, grinning broadly, her black ringlets carried on the night air like they'd always been in a battle. Sometimes she would tie her hair into a braid on a windy night so it wouldn't distract her whilst she fought, Voldemort knew, but most of the time she was wont to leave her hair down. He gulped as he approached her, stumbling in his drunkenness, and told her,

"I'm liable to be indecent with you here, Bella. I should take you home."

"This is my home, Master," she reminded him, but he shook his head just a little and said quietly,

"Not yet."

"Please," he heard her whisper, and then all self-control was lost. He walked quickly with her up to the house, up to the front door, and he used his wand to break down his wards and throw open the door. He called out for Romy, and when the House-Elf came scampering into the foyer of Praelia House, he announced in a voice slurred from liquor,

"This is your mistress. This is Bellatrix."

"Ohhh! Mistress Bellatrix! Romy is so happy to serve you! Romy will make you most happy and comfortable here, Mistress! Romy will make your home such a wondrous place!"

Bellatrix smirked. "Well, good. Thank you. I'll glance about quickly; I'd like to have a look at things."

"Romy will show you, Mistress Bellatrix! Romy will give a grant tour of Praelia House whilst the Master goes upstairs to make himself comfortable! Master looks most weary. Master seems a bit intoxicated! Romy can give the tour to Mistress Bellatrix and then bring her upstairs to the Master."

Bellatrix curled up her lips, amused, to Voldemort, who shrugged and admitted in a bit of a garbled voice,

"I confess the Elf is right. The Master is a bit intoxicated. But I don't want to… don't want to presume…"

"I'll meet you upstairs, My Lord," Bellatrix said, reaching up to brush her fingers over his jaw and making him shiver, "after I've had my tour."

"Fuck." He hissed the filthy word in Parseltongue, not realising he'd reverted to snake language in his desperation. But her touch, and her beauty, and his drunkenness combined to take his consciousness from him. He shook his head a little and mumbled to Romy that he'd be upstairs. As he heaved himself up the heavy wooden staircase and made his way into his bedroom, he could hear Romy excitedly showing Bellatrix the parlours, the dining room, the kitchens. Voldemort fumbled at his wardrobe with the clasps of his formal black waffle weave robe, his fingers struggling in his muddled state, and when he managed to strip it off, he just shoved it into the wardrobe and let it crumple. He yanked off his dressy tunic and kicked off his shiny boots, and he was about to pull down his tailored breeches when he hesitated.

Too young, he thought frantically. She'd been thirty when he'd had Spanish Rioja with her, just before he'd gone to kill Harry Potter. She'd been affected by the war just as deeply as he had been, tired and twisted, made mature by combat and pain. Voldemort stood now at his wardrobe and swayed, his veins coursing with firewhisky and Champagne, and he considered that here, thirteen years back from that last night he'd seen her, Bellatrix was just a girl. But she was here in his house, in their house, and she was to be his wife. She would not marry Rodolphus. Voldemort would not covet another man's wife for over a decade. She would be his; he would possess her fully.

His fingers managed then to unlace his breeches, urged forth by the thought that she wanted him, that she was as hungry for him as he was for her. She'd been the one to ask to come here, after all. Voldemort shut his eyes as he peeled off his breeches and wobbled drunkenly getting out of them, remembering distantly that the week before, he'd taken a dose of Infecundum Solution to Bellatrix at her parents' house. He'd told her to drink the draught before bed, for it would induce several hours' worth of awful cramping that needed to go untreated by other spells or potions in order for the contraception to work. She'd reassured him by owl the next morning that all was well, but that the night had been sleepless from the pain. She'd thanked him profusely for brewing her the Infecundum Solution, for understanding her need for sterility, and he'd just written back that all he wanted was her.

Voldemort replaced his dress breeches with a pair of lightweight sleeping trousers in dark grey cotton. He loosely bound them at his waist and began to feel a twinge of arousal, a tingle of anticipation coming over him as he wondered if he would get to see Bellatrix's body tonight. For so many years, his mind had cooked up wild fantasies about bringing her to his home in Danby after a battle, yanking off her filthy clothes and marking her up with rough kisses, slamming her into the wall and hiking up her leg and driving himself into her. He'd spent ages dreaming about holding her back after a Death Eaters' meeting, sitting her on the table at Malfoy Manor and putting her legs around his waist as he rocked into her and kissed her. For over a decade, his mind and his body had yearned for the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, for the feel of her body around his member, for the sound of her voice whispering in his ear. He had never had his dreams realised, not once. But she was here now. She was in this house with him tonight. She was his, at long last.

"Does the Mistress need anything else at all?" Voldemort heard Romy asking Bellatrix, and then Bellatrix's voice replied,

"No. You can go… for the night. I'll be fine."

"Goodnight, Mistress. Romy is so happy to have met you, Mistress. Romy is so happy to serve!"

"Right. Goodnight." Voldemort heard the bedroom door shut, and he took a few staggering steps away from his wardrobe, his head swimming from the drinking he'd done. Bellatrix appeared before him in the dim, glowing light from the sconces on the walls, and Voldemort's breath hitched in his lungs. Her makeup was still perfectly intact; she'd probably worn the sort that was Charmed to stay in place all night and not budge until you used the special cream Madam Primpernelle's sold to remove it. Her hairstyle, though, had fallen a bit over the last few hours, and her curls had gone a bit wild in a way that made Voldemort's stomach quiver. She was so tiny, thin and very short, but her black silk caped gown fit her perfectly. Voldemort just stared at her for a long moment, and then he finally asked, his words coming out in a blur,

"D'you like the house?"

"Very much," she nodded, her pretty red lips curling up. "I especially like the smaller drawing room. The dark blue with the piano. I noticed you've got no portraits at all in the place. I presume that's for security reasons."

"Yes," Voldemort confirmed. "I'd prefer if Praelia House stay as stealth as possible as my movement grows, so that you and I will always have somewhere safe to return to… after a battle, or a meeting, or an interrogation."

"After committing atrocities," Bellatrix smirked, and Voldemort took a step closer to her, holding out his hand.

"I know what you are capable of."

She put her fingers into his palm and closed the gap between them, pressing her right hand flat to the planes of his bare, lean chest and then kissing his sternum, over which there was a dusting of dark hair. She stared up at him and whispered,

"Tell me, Master. What am I capable of?"

His skin prickled then, with want and with memory, and his eyes fluttered shut as blood flushed into his cock. He felt her fingers cinch against the skin of his chest, and he grunted a little, wanting her so badly he could not think properly for a moment. But then, at last, he coursed through several real events for her in rapid succession, his mind replaying the myriad times he'd seen her at her most brutal and depraved.

"I know," he choked out, feeling so drunk he thought he'd fall over, "that you have it in you to aim your wand through whipping rain in the bitter cold at our enemies, to scream out Killing Curses with confidence and to hit your targets with accuracy no one around you possesses. I know that you will be able to stalk around your prey whilst you snare them up in the hellish heat of your Cruciatus Curse, demanding information and usually getting it. I know that you have the potential, Bellatrix, to inflict terror on people, to make people quiver with fear when they see your face. It's all… I can see it very plainly, you understand."

He opened his eyes then and looked down at her. She was staring up at him, her enormous chestnut eyes glistening, and her fingers trailed down his chest and over his stomach. She looked awed for a long moment, and then she mumbled,

"Please take me to bed, Master."

He just shook his head a bit and insisted, "I'm too drunk, Bella."

She looked heartbroken then. "There are potions… spells."

He kissed her forehead and informed her groggily, "I'd rather sleep it off. It's something that ought to be done properly, Bellatrix, for both our sakes. I'll hold you, and you can stay, but I'm not going to… you know, do that with you… not until I'm of my right mind."

"All right," Bellatrix huffed. She kept touching him, which drove him a bit mad, for her little hands felt so good on his stomach that he tensed up with want. But he nodded when she asked tentatively, "Would you mind helping me out of this gown, at least, Master?"

He was silent as he struggled through vision blurred by liquor to see and unfasten all the tiny hook and eye clasps running down the side of her black silk gown. He helped her shuck it over her head, and then his cock was absolutely aching with need, for she'd revealed herself to him in a way he'd spent thirteen years imagining. She stood before him in a simple black silk brassiere and matching black silk knickers, and Voldemort just ogled like a fool. Her abdomen was trim, her waist nipped in, her hips still narrow. Her legs were short but smooth and pale. Her breasts were small but pert and perfectly round.

Suddenly Voldemort couldn't help himself. Thirteen years of pent-up frustration, of covetous desire and of stinging, painful need for her thrummed in his chest and detonated. Before he knew what was happening, he had closed the gap between Bellatrix and himself and had bent to crush her mouth with a kiss, drinking her in as he dropped his yew wand and coursed his arms around her. He let his hands paw at her little waist, feeling her smooth skin, coursing around her bare back, and then he started working at the back of her brassiere. His tongue tangled with hers, and he choked a little noise when he felt her gamely pull her tongue over the roof of his mouth.

Her undergarments fluttered to the ground in wisps of black silk; he'd pulled off her bra, and she'd rushed to step out of her knickers. And then, again, before Voldemort could help it, he was staggering with her toward the stout bed, pushing her up onto the emerald glazed chintz bedding. He felt her minuscule fingers working at the ties near his waist, felt her shoving down his cotton sleep trousers as she heaved herself back onto his pillows, and he studied her face. She did not seem afraid. She looked determined, steely, and full of ardour. That made Voldemort so hard he almost finished in her hand.

"Bella," he hissed helplessly as she stroked him, and she just hummed and turned her head to kiss at his bicep. He shut his eyes and felt deeply, profoundly dizzy. He should not be doing this, he thought. They were not yet married, and he was drunk. He bent to kiss her, brushing his lips against hers and then whispering into the air between them, "Mmm. No; it isn't too late to stop all this and -"

"Please, Master," she whimpered, and Voldemort thought his head would burst wide open with unfettered need. Never, not in all the fantasies he'd cooked up in the thirteen years of craving her, had he imagined that she would be this starved for him. He collapsed onto his side beside her and shoved his sleeping trousers all the way off, and she curled up against him, spooning with him and facing away as his erect member folded up onto her back. Voldemort wrapped his arm around her and cupped her breast, thumbing her peaked nipple and weighing the soft fleshy parts of her in his palm. He used his other hand to push her curls aside and kissed beneath her ear, whispering,

"So incredibly beautiful."

"I keep forgetting you're a Parselmouth, Master," Bellatrix huffed breathlessly, and Voldemort wrenched his eyes shut as he realised he'd reverted to Parseltongue with her. He compressed her breast in his hand, pinching at her nipple, and as she tossed her head back, he found himself informing her,

"I'm the Heir of Slytherin. That's why."

She looked a little confused but just nodded. Voldemort let his fingertips trail down over her ribs, over her smooth, slim belly, and she arched her back and moaned. He kissed her cheek and felt the room lurch in his drunkenness, but he managed to stay focused enough to feel when his fingers made contact with her quim. She cried out a bit uncertainly the instant he touched at her, the pads of his fingers drawing circles around her clit and then carefully delving into her entrance. She was soaked, he realised at once. Sodden with desire. Dripping with want. The folds of her womanhood were warm and swollen with arousal, and somehow he suspected she would not experience the violent, foul unpleasantness so many witches did when they surrender their virginity. He'd had so very many virgins, some significantly more excited than others, but never had he touched an inexperienced witch who was so ready to receive him as Bellatrix seemed.

He growled a little against her neck and felt his cock leak precome against her back; he was throbbing so badly with unmet urgency now that he thought he might lose himself before entering her. His fingers worked quickly then, toying with her clit in a firm, consistent pattern that made her writhe where she lay. Somehow, she grew even more aroused; he watched as fluid drizzled from her body onto the green chintz covers.

"Are you cold?" Voldemort mumbled, for he realised they were just lying on the top of the bed naked, but she shook her head wildly, seeming unable to summon speech. She started to roll her hips a bit rhythmically against Voldemort's hand, and her fingers clutched at the pillow beside her as she made desperate little noises. Finally, she cried wildly and went still, and then he felt her womanhood fluttering for a moment before he could feel that her walls were contracting erratically. She breathed deeply through her climax, the air trembling between her lips. At long last, she relaxed a little, and Voldemort pulled his hand from her and managed to wandlessly Scour it clean.

"Th-thank you, My Lord," Bellatrix said, sounding discombobulated. Voldemort moved to hover over her, and he knelt in between her legs. She parted her knees and stared up at him, and he fully expected to see in her eyes the trepidation and anxiety he had always seen in a virgin. But in her wide, dark eyes there was heat. There was need. There was adoration. She reached to stroke at his forearm, and she hummed,

"I want you so badly, Master."

This was so very different from how everything else in his entire life had been, Voldemort thought. She was calling him My Lord. She was calling him Master. When he'd fucked Ivy Greengrass and Sadie Crouch and Freya Travers, they'd all called him Tom. When he'd been with Gry Alba in Denmark, she had been vaguely condescending. She would have never, not in an eternity, called Voldemort Master when they were naked together. And this was Bellatrix. This was the witch Voldemort had longed for for so long now that he scarcely remembered what it was like not to want her.

She was reaching between them now to stroke at his cock, and he found himself having to bat her hand away almost forcefully, because he almost came the second she touched him. He breathed through clenched teeth and admitted,

"It has been a very long time for me, you realise, and I want this very badly. So."

"So?" Bellatrix was breathless. Voldemort choked a laugh and stroked at her jaw.

"I am unlikely to last, I'm afraid."

She smiled peacefully up at him and shrugged. She echoed his words from the party. "Everyone has a first time. You're mine. And you'll be my last. But there shall me many times in between, My Lord, and you can last longer then."

"Mmph." He gulped hard and leaned forward, touching the tip of his cock to her entrance and hearing her gasp as she stretched a little to accommodate him. He bent to kiss her lips and informed her gently, "It'll only hurt a little bit, and only for a little while, and only this time. Promise."

"I'm fine." She reached bravely for his hips then and encouraged him to penetrate her, which he did. She gasped again, her back arching as her legs curled around his waist. She whimpered as Voldemort pumped his hips a few times, entering her more deeply with each thrust until he'd buried himself to the hilt within her. He was not an absurdly large man, but his member was thick and long enough to properly pleasure any witch, and he certainly knew what to do with it. Ordinarily, he would never do such a bland thing as to just perch atop a witch and just thrash into her whilst she lay unmoving beneath him, but Bellatrix had never had a wizard inside her before, so he was trying, just this once, to be conservative with how he took her.

Voldemort found himself cycling his hips onto hers and kissing the damp skin of her forehead as he groaned, listening to her quaking breath and her wanton little cries of My Lord every now and then. She was incredibly tight round his cock; he'd nearly forgotten the feel of a witch altogether after thirteen years, and she was utterly divine. She was warm around him, sopping wet and throbbing with arousal. Her entire body pulsed beneath his, and after just a few minutes of Voldemort driving his cock in and out of her body, he felt everything begin to go taut and tense. His veins raced through with blood ignited by passion, his heart thrummed inside his chest, his ears rang loudly, and his lungs burned with a sudden sense of exertion. He snarled through his teeth then as he lost himself, jolting his hips to a stop and letting his seed fill her, knowing she was protected by the potion he'd brewed for her.

His climax was short-lived but remarkably intense. Thirteen years of relying on his own hand to bring himself to completion had made Voldemort realise that he'd been long denying himself the delightful sensation of finishing inside a witch. But, again, this was not just any witch. This was Bellatrix, his Bellatrix. His head rushed, not just from how drunk he was, as realisation washed over him that he was actually finding his satisfaction inside of her body of all bodies, and he hissed desperately in Parseltongue,

"Bellatrix, for thirteen years I have needed this. I have needed you for thirteen years…"

He was very grateful for his gift then, for the fact that she could not understand him, for he realised that in his drunken haze and the aftermath of his climax, he'd revealed information she must not have. He let his cock slip out of her body, feeling an obscene little river of come follow, and he bent to place a careful, slow, langorous kiss on Bellatrix's lips.

"Have you any idea how happy you make me?" he mumbled onto her mouth, and she just replied in a whisper,

"If I never do anything else but make you happy, Master, I shall die content."

Voldemort huffed a sigh and flopped onto his back beside her, his cock now flaccid and spent, and he stared at the ceiling where he lay atop the glazed chintz bedding. He reached for his yew wand and cast a few spells to clean Bellatrix's body up, and then his own, and he set his wand down as he murmured,

"You can wear one of my tunics from my wardrobe to sleep, if you'd like."

"Must I, Master?" she teased quietly, and he smirked, shaking his head as he studied the ceiling.

"No."

Waking beside her in the morning was, perhaps, the most reassuring thing that had ever happened to Lord Voldemort in his life. He'd been very concerned, for some strange reason, that he would lose her in his sleep. Paranoid, he'd stayed awake for hours after she'd dozed off naked beside him, curled beneath the sheets. He was terrified he would time travel again, away from her, away from all of this. But when he finally found himself unable to stay awake any longer, he just cradled her against him and kissed her shoulder blade, thinking of the time she'd worn a scandalously revealing gown to a New Year's Eve party. It had been around 1975, and she'd been at the peak of her beauty. She'd shown off her shoulders, her arms, and much of her chest. Rodolphus had seemed very uncomfortable. Everyone had stared, Voldemort most of all. Now, here she was, in his bed, with not a scrap of clothing upon her, with his handmade ring upon her finger.

In the morning, it was pouring rain, and Bellatrix seemed quite content with that as she accepted Voldemort's dressing-gown and watched him from his bed as he shaved and scrubbed his teeth. He didn't know why he let her watch. He should have cared about the invasion of privacy, but he didn't. Somehow, it felt like all of this ought to have happened years earlier, like she'd been meant to have seen him like this the morning after a battle they'd won together half a decade sooner. He would settle for now.

He Transfigured her silk gown from the night before into a much simpler day dress for her, hemming it to a comfortable length and changing the fabric to a lightweight wool. She seemed embarrassed but accepted his help when he Scoured her teeth for her, since she had no toothbrush at his house at the moment and couldn't do magic herself. The two of them went downstairs, and Romy quickly made a breakfast of fried eggs with sausages and apple slices with cold milk to drink. Once the food appeared, Voldemort noted to Bellatrix,

"I took Hang-Away Potion this morning for my headache and nausea. I apologise for drinking so much at the party. The firewhisky got away from me. I don't usually… I confess I was more jittery than usual."

Bellatrix just smiled at him and shook her head. "You've nothing to apologise for, Master. And, anyway, I was perfectly pleased with your behaviour last night from start to finish. Particularly when you put Juniper Rowle in her place. Thank you for that."

"Hmm. Yes, well. That wasn't just about making her jealous, amusing though that was." Voldemort speared a sausage. "It is critically important that people respect me, Bella. I simply will not abide silly little girls running about disparaging me like she did. I will not stand for it."

"Quite right." Bellatrix seemed happy, and Voldemort added,

"I could not have been more proud, I must tell you, with the way you introduced me to Kit Rowle and to Juniper herself as Lord Voldemort, the way you kept calling me My Lord in front of people. It is immensely helpful to me, you know, if people see that I am not just some Half-Blood parvenu marrying into the House of Black as I try to scramble up the social ladder."

Bellatrix sipped from her glass and nodded. "I promise, My Lord, that I will always make it very plain to people that whilst I am your wife, I am first and foremost your servant. Your soldier."

"And that is why I cherish you so," Voldemort said, before he could help himself. He set down his knife and fork, thinking then that he'd gotten entirely too emotional. He sighed. "In any case… your mother was right to suggest a marriage, I should think."

Bellatrix ate quietly for a few minutes, and then at last once she'd finished her food, Romy came and cleared the plates, and Bellatrix asked,

"My Lord, would you mind horribly if I did not marry you in a white bridal gown?"

He just stared. His mind flashed with a very vivid memory of her in the creamy confection she'd worn to marry Rodolphus. She hadn't liked that dress, Voldemort knew. Her wedding day had been one of the few occasions upon which he had peered into her mind with Legilimency to see her true feelings, and he could see that she'd argued with Rodolphus and her mother about wearing white. And Voldemort had never, not in any of the many years he'd known her after that, seen her wear so pale a colour again. He cleared his throat now and shook his head, quirking up a little smile.

"Wear whatever you like. Who am I to dictate to the bride what she is permitted to wear?"

Her eyes went a little wet. She sniffed a bit and said,

"Would you be very angry if I wore black?"

He choked a little laugh and shook his head again. "No. Not even a little angry. Why should I be?"

"My mother says it's dour and glum, that I shall look funereal at my own wedding. I tried to tell her I would be miserable in white; you see, I never wear white, and I -"

"No. I know you don't." Voldemort felt odd then. He shut his eyes and said firmly, "Tell Druella Rosier Black that Lord Voldemort commands his bride be permitted to wear whatever pleases her. You must always have what pleases you, Bella, because you… because I…"

He waited for a moment, unable to finish his thought. He just let his words die in the quiet dining room, and, wisely, Bellatrix did not press him further. When he opened his eyes, she just nodded across the table to him and said lightly,

"You'd promised to take me back to Mayfair in the morning, Master. It is nearly eleven. My parents gave us grace, but I do not know to what lengths their patience will extend. We ought to go, perhaps."

He nodded, rising from his chair and leading her out of the house by her hand so he could take her back to her parents' house in London. This time, he knew, he would not drunkenly take her to Danby. And, anyway, his sober mind knew well enough. This place was home now.

Author's Note: Yayyyyyy they finally did it! Only took (checks notes) almost 50,000 words. Talk about a slow burn. Thank you as always for reading and please do leave a review.