"Well," huffed Druella Black, drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair where she sat in Twillfit and Tattings, "I must say, Thabo, you've outdone yourself. I had serious doubts. I didn't think even you could possibly create a bridal look in black that was going to be suitable for this occasion."
"On the contrary, Madam," gushed Thabo, stalking around Bellatrix like a cheetah preening around its kill, "I believe your daughter will be the envy of every bride for the past ten years and the ten years to come. Black has always been Bellatrix's colour. White would wash out her personality. It may be convention, but it simply is not fit for purpose for every single bride. Now. Allow me to tell you what exactly I've created."
He aimed his wand at the lanterns around Bellatrix, and at his non-verbal command, the glow within the lanterns intensified, and the light upon Bellatrix shone more brightly. In the mirror, she sparkled and glimmered, and even her own breath was taken for a moment. She nervously picked at her fingernails as Thabo Shacklebolt gushed proudly to Druella,
"There are hundreds of thousands of black crystals on this gown, Madam Black, all covering the finest jet-coloured mulberry silk from China. You'll note the way the strapless sweetheart neckline accentuates Bellatrix's bust without being lewd or salacious."
"Yes. It's appropriate and elegant," Druella concurred, and Bellatrix just sniffed. She was getting married. Who cared if her wedding gown was proper? But Thabo touched at Bellatrix's ribs proudly and declared,
"She's got such a tiny waist; I just had to show it off with the cut of the gown. It's nipped in tightly and supported with a boned structure beneath. The full skirts have layers of tulle underskirts over a flexible hoop skirt, and just look at the movement, even with the train. My dear, give your mother a little twirl."
Bellatrix made a motion like she was dancing, imagining for a moment that she was swept up in Lord Voldemort's arms. Around her, the ridiculously voluminous skirts of her glittering black ballroom gown shimmered with fluid motion and then settled, and Druella gave Bellatrix a very satisfied look.
"And the veil?" Druella asked Thabo, who smirked and shook his head.
"I've got something even better. One moment, ladies."
He dashed off into the back room, and once he'd gone, Bellatrix studied herself in the mirror. She looked like a very dark princess, or perhaps even a queen. Perched upon her curls was the old Rosier family tiara of platinum and diamonds, a stunning creation that had come from France. It was as gothic as the dress, with teardrop pearls dangling from pointed peaks that shimmered in the shop's lights. Bellatrix's dress felt heavy upon her, with its cathedral train and its weighty skirts.
"Bellatrix," Druella said softly, and she turned to look at her mother as the Rosier tiara wobbled atop her head. Druella's eyes were wet with tears and her voice was a bit thick as she admitted, "I do not suppose either your father and I foresaw anything remotely like this. You learning from him instead of going back to Hogwarts. Marrying Tom Riddle, or all -"
"Lord Voldemort," Bellatrix corrected her, and Druella's face shifted. She stood from her chair and approached Bellatrix. She adjusted her family's ancestral tiara upon her daughter's hair and tucked a stray curl behind Bellatrix's ear, whispering,
"There. Now it's on straight. You must represent your families well, my dear, when he takes you for his own."
"Here we are!" Thabo Shacklebolt exploded out of the back room with the energy of a Puffskein, and Bellatrix flinched. She gasped softly when Thabo wrapped a lush black tulle cloak around her, clasping its jewelled closure near her neck and pulling the soft black tulle hood up around her face. No. She did not need a wispy white bridal veil. She looked so much darker like this, cloaked in black, shrouded like a siren. Her throat burned suddenly, and she nodded and said to Druella,
"It's perfect."
"Very well done, Thabo," Druella said primly. "Once again, I should say, you've gone and proven why everyone says you are by far the most fashionable wizard among us. Now. Let's get Bellatrix out of her gown. We've got other shopping to do… after all, dear, your cosmetics supply is sorely lacking for such an occasion as a wedding."
"Ooh," Thabo smirked. He winked at Bellatrix. "Madam Primpernelle just got in the most divine No Budge Lipstick in Ruby. I swear, the shade is universally flattering, and the shine is like a mirror. Try it for yourself. It'll be perfect."
"Right," Bellatrix said nervously. She went with Thabo toward the back room, pulling her heavy train behind her.
Bellatrix did not like bone marrow. Her mother Druella knew that she did not like bone marrow. But Druella liked bone marrow, and so, two days before Bellatrix's wedding, the entire Black family sat at their dining room table eating marrow with bacon marmalade with freshly baked toast. Andromeda hummed with delight as she spread some marrow onto her toast and chewed it, and Narcissa ate in contented silence. Bellatrix just nibbled her toast, leaving her marrow alone, and listened as her father said,
"So, there will be a total of four House-Elves serving the wedding. Rosier Keep's own Elf, of course, and then the Malfoys are bring Dobby along, and we're contributing Kip, and Lord Voldemort says he's happy to bring along your own creature, Bellatrix."
"Oh. Romy. Yes. Good there'll be so many of them. I expect the guests will keep them busy," Bellatrix said a bit anxiously.
"Well, I fully intend on this being the Pureblood social event against which all others are measured for quite some time," Druella said stiffly. She slathered some marrow onto her toast and eyed Bellatrix. "Have you any idea how much your father has spent on oysters, Elf-made Champagne, and white truffle fondue alone?"
"No," Bellatrix said quietly, and Cygnus choked a laugh.
"Don't be gauche, Druella. Our daughter is well aware that we are giving her a proper wedding."
"I just hope she appreciates it. That's all." Druella sniffed. "And I hope Tom Riddle appreciates it, too. I don't know that he realises how much this sort of thing costs. The man grew up in a Muggle orphanage, Cygnus."
Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "He spent years living and learning on the Continent, Mum. I think he knows full well how much food costs."
"No one has any idea what he was doing all of those years in Italy or wherever he was," Druella said dismissively. "Who knows what the blazes he was doing with all that wasted time?"
Bellatrix set down her toast and felt her cheeks go warm. "He was learning things like Pyromancy, Mum. He met Vampires and Werewolves. He learnt Magical history beyond anything anyone was taught at Hogwarts."
Druella put her lips into a flat line. "Well. I suppose all of that would indeed make a man like Tom Riddle more aspirational than ever. When we are at Hogwarts, everyone thought for certain he'd go straight into the Ministry and climb the ranks there. I admit we were all surprised when he went to work in Knockturn Alley as a shopkeep."
"He was not a shopkeep," Bellatrix growled softly. "He procured rare artefacts for Mr Burke. He was quite skilled with his work."
"Of course, darling," Druella said soothingly. "In any case, when he disappeared one day, none of us had any idea at all where he'd gone. It was just like he'd vanished into the ether. And that was very shocking indeed, because he'd been so very pompous and driven as a Slytherin. But then he came back from the Continent all self-assured and freshly ambitious. It makes sense, I suppose, if he spent all that time in such interesting company."
Bellatrix opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly the doorbell chimed, and she heard Kip's scrambling footsteps pattering through the house's foyer. Druella touched her napkin to her lips and cleared her throat delicately.
"Who on Earth could be visiting us at dinnertime two days before the wedding?" asked Narcissa curiously, but Bellatrix's stomach fluttered, for she had a sneaking suspicion. Her guess was confirmed when Kip came sprinting into the dining room. He skidded to a stop and said excitedly,
"Mistress Bellatrix, a v-visitor for you, Miss."
He'd walked in with Kip, rather brazenly. Lord Voldemort stepped into the dining room wearing lightweight robes of deepest blue, and he looked so achingly handsome Bellatrix wanted to cry. Cygnus pulled himself to his feet and said stoutly,
"Sir. I do hope you're doing well as the wedding draws near."
"Kip, set a place at the table for Mr Riddle," Druella said lightly, but Voldemort scoffed and said,
"I haven't come to eat, Druella. I apologise for interrupting your dinner. I seem to be skilled at doing so."
"It's no matter at all. We were just discussing your time on the Continent," Druella said. "Do join us, won't you? Kip!"
She snapped that last word, and Kip hurried to use magic to ready another place at the dining room table. Voldemort reluctantly greeted Narcissa and Andromeda before taking his place opposite Bellatrix, and he flashed her a little smile as he sat. He nodded and said gently,
"I know I'm meant to keep my distance from my bride, but I confess I could not stay away."
"But that's lovely," cooed Narcissa in a dreamy voice, and Andromeda looked a bit horrified. Druella just sniffed and said,
"I was telling Bellatrix all about the oysters and white truffle fondue her father had arranged for the wedding."
"I thought you were discussing my time on the Continent," Voldemort said, confused, and Druella's face went a little red. She folded her hands on the table and gave Voldemort a knowing little smile.
"Yes. Both. Do you know, Tom, that Cygnus had to have the Rosier House-Elf source the oysters from a special estuary in Colchester? They're Kumamoto oysters; they grow agonisingly slowly and have a delectable sweetness. They're very precious, you understand."
"Mmm. Those go for, what, two for a Galleon these days? And you probably bought at least a thousand of them. Goodness. Well, Druella, as it happens, I've received a generous in-kind donation recently from Charlus and Dorea Potter. It seems Charlus' relative Fleamont left him quite a lot of money in his will when he… died. He made such a fortune with the Sleekeazy's. Anyway. I'm more than happy to pay for the Kumamoto oysters."
He curled his lips up at Druella, whose face had gone very red indeed. Bellatrix tried hard not to bark out a laugh. Narcissa looked on in amazement, and even Andromeda had perked up. But Cygnus laughed and boomed out,
"Of course not, sir! You'll do no such thing. We're very happy to pay for the wedding. Aren't we, Druella?"
"Yes." Druella nodded and picked up her goblet of wine. "Of course we are."
"I thank you for the offer of dinner; I'm certain the marrow was delicious. I've never had it with bacon like this. I once had an exquisite version in Montmartre, marrow with beef tartare topped with capers and drizzled with olive oil. Oh, it was impeccable. I'm sure you've eaten at that restaurant a thousand times, Druella - La Licorne, on rue Ramey?"
He gave her a curious look, and suddenly Bellatrix realised precisely what was happening. Druella Rosier Black was getting the dressing down of her life. Somehow, whether through Legilimency or intuition, Lord Voldemort had come into this conversation knowing that Bellatrix's mother had once again been bad-mouthing him, that she'd been arrogant and patronising about Tom Riddle's humble origins. So he was gloating about his cosmopolitan experiences, about how much he knew, about how much he had now. He just stared expectantly at Druella, who finally admitted,
"No, I've not tried that one. It's been some time since I've been in Paris. Perhaps Cygnus will take me again soon."
"Ooh. I'd love to go to Paris," gushed Narcissa. "I've never been!"
"In any case," Voldemort said very softly then, "I actually ate a simple meal at home before coming here. As I said, I simply could not stay away. Perhaps I might have sent my gift by owl, but I wanted to deliver it in person."
"Gift?" breathed Bellatrix, her heart picking up. Voldemort stood from his chair and stepped around the table. He held out his hand to her and murmured,
"We'll just be in the parlour, Cygnus. Druella. Please, enjoy your dessert."
Bellatrix rose and walked with him out of the dining room, feeling so nervous she thought she'd cry or be sick or both. When they stopped in front of the large, stout fireplace, Voldemort reached into his robes and pulled out a jewellery box. Bellatrix wordlessly accepted it from him and opened it, gasping when she saw what was inside. It was a necklace, constructed in the shape of an elaborate and elegant starburst, with small shimmering diamonds in spiky points surrounding a larger centre stone that was a salt and pepper rosecut gem just like her ring.
"My Lord," Bellatrix breathed, "It is wondrous. Did you… you couldn't have made this…"
"Of course I did," Voldemort said proudly. He pulled the necklace out of the jewellery box and encouraged Bellatrix to push her curls aside so he could clasp the back behind her neck. She admired the glinting pendant just below her collarbone as he informed her, "This piece was, admittedly, even more challenging than your engagement ring, but it was well worth it. It is, of course, representative of your name."
She frowned at him. "Of Bellatrix?"
He smirked and brushed his fingers along her neck, finally touching the necklace he'd crafted for her and making her shiver.
"Don't you know about your namesake, Bella?" he teased. He bent then and brushed his lips against hers, and he whispered onto her mouth, "Bellatrix is the third brightest star in the constellation Orion. The twenty-fifth brightest star in the night sky. Somehow, I find, Bellatrix is, at the present moment, the only star for which I can muster any interest whatsoever."
She found herself kissing him then, somewhat desperately, sliding her fingers along his jaw with his tongue inside of her mouth. She moaned onto him and flattened herself against him, and then she heard Kip's little voice say helplessly,
"Mistress Bellatrix? Erm… Mistress Druella says there is blackberry jam ice cream served, Miss."
Bellatrix broke away from Voldemort and panted up at him. He shut his eyes and huffed a breath.
"Go," he whispered. "You mustn't miss the blackberry jam ice cream."
"Only two more days," Bellatrix hissed, "and then I shall be at Praelia House with you forever, Master."
"Mmm." He pet her hair gently and kissed her forehead, and he nodded as he murmured, "Goodbye, then. Until I make you mine at last."
"At last," she repeated those words, for they seemed strange. He seemed like he meant them differently than she did; he seemed like he meant them very seriously indeed. Suddenly Bellatrix thought of all the times he'd mentioned being alone and untouched for thirteen years, the times he'd called her Bella before they'd really known one another. She thought of how she'd dreamed of an older Lord Voldemort having a Killing Curse backfired upon him the night before she'd eaten goose with him at Malfoy Manor. She thought of all that and then decided she was being very silly, and she just shook her head and let him kiss her lips softly one more time before he took a large step back and Disapparated.
"Tom! I presume the little bride is still off getting ready."
"Silvester." Voldemort turned and clasped forearms with Silvester Flint, who had walked up to him inside the gloriously decorated ballroom of Rosier Keep. Silvester gestured about and noted,
"Druella never did make any secret what sort of family she came from, eh? My own mother liked to cruelly assert that the Rosiers had nothing but their castle and their marriages, but, in reality, what more do you need these days?" He gave Voldemort a knowing look and tipped his head. "From my understanding, sir, Druella's managed a good marriage inside this fine castle today."
"Hmm. I'm glad you think so." Voldemort smiled a little. He didn't have a drink, not yet. He was in no hurry at all to feel the buzz of alcohol inside his head. It was still the cocktail and hors d'oeuvres hour, during which Bellatrix was off in one of the castle's countless suites with her mother and sisters readying herself for the ceremony. Voldemort was wracked with nerves, and whilst a good tumbler of firewhisky or at least some Draught of Peace would have felt good at the moment, he was settling for old-fashioned socialising to get by.
Rosier Keep had a gothic ballroom with stained glass windows that looked out upon the gardens and timbers on the ceilings. Enchanted fairy lights glimmered throughout the ballroom, hovering everywhere, floating lazily overhead. A little orchestra and a well-trained singer were entertaining the guests with well-known wizarding classics. There were flowers everywhere, primarily cream-coloured roses and eucalyptus as per Druella's request. Bellatrix had agreed to the pale flowers in exchange for her black dress, Voldemort knew.
He eyed the food and ignored the twinge of his own hunger. He couldn't bring himself to be scarfing down the expensive oysters or the truffle fondue, the fennel and endive salad, the smoked salmon mousse. He couldn't be bothered with the salted strawberry cocktails or the iced Butterbeers, by the honeysuckle cherry punch or the Elf-made white wine from Bandol in Provence. Voldemort ignored all of it and turned his attention back to Silvester Flint, quirking his lips up a little.
"How's that son of yours?"
"Orlo," Silvester nodded vigorously. He glanced over to where a cluster of Hogwarts boys stood chatting, Lucius Malfoy among the oldest of them. Orlo Flint was, probably at this time, a second or third-year Slytherin, Voldemort reckoned. He was much too young right now to get swept up in politics. But in Voldemort's lived experience, he'd served Voldemort like his father Silvester and had gone on to infiltrate the Daily Prophet. Voldemort eyed little raven-haired Orlo and watched as the boy grinned enthusiastically at Lucius Malfoy. Orlo had always quite admired Lucius, who was intelligent and athletic and wealthy.
"I've heard little Orlo has quite the gift for writing," lied Voldemort smoothly to Silvester, whose face lit up brightly. Voldemort shrugged. "Perhaps I might use my connections. Get him a tour at the Prophet… see if we can't try to get the gears turning on an eventual placement for him at the paper. I know he's young, but you never can start too early with these things."
"Oh, that would be wonderful," beamed Silvester, "just wonderful."
"And in return," Voldemort said slickly, "I should like it very much if Orlo kept me apprised of the happenings at the Daily Prophet, and was receptive to my input on what was fit for print."
Realisation came over Silvester Flint's face, and his smile faltered for just a moment before he steadied himself and then nodded. He forced a little smile and then said,
"I think Orlo… and I… will be great friends of yours in the years to come."
"Good. Glad to hear it. Oh, look. Here come your wife and daughter… and the Lestranges."
Now it was Lord Voldemort dragging up the corners of his lips as Rudy Lestrange strode up with Sadie Crouch Lestrange, the witch who had given herself to Tom Riddle and taken his virginity. With them was Iris Greengrass Flint, whom Tom Riddle had spent more than one night drilling roughly into Slytherin dormitory sheets when she'd been a young silver-haired witch. Josephine Flint was arm-in-arm with Rodolphus Lestrange; Rabastan had spoken at length with Voldemort earlier about politics and now was off with Abraxas Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood, and a few others.
"Hello, Tom," purred Sadie, and Voldemort huffed a breath as she said sadly, "The playboy of Slytherin is signing himself away at long last. I would make a toast, but you haven't got a drink."
"I could fix that, Sadie," said Iris Greengrass flirtatiously, and Voldemort scoffed, realising the witches had ambushed him. He rolled his eyes and countered,
"Josephine, what a perfect match you are with Mr Lestrange. I declare you'd birth him a magnificent brood of the finest Pureblood offspring. I should even say you have the ideal hips for such an endeavour."
Iris Flint looked shocked, and Rudy Lestrange looked mildly taken aback, but Voldemort boldly carried on,
"My understanding, Miss Flint, is that Mr Lestrange desires absolutely nothing more in this world than a good broodmare of a wife, a witch who seeks a future of staying home doing Magical crafts and hosting tea parties throughout her pregnancies and years of child-rearing. I do hope you enjoy yourself in such a future. You understand, that future was entirely wrong for my Bellatrix. She is much too fierce and intelligent to spend her days like that. But you, Josephine… you seem well-suited for such a thing. I think you and Mr Lestrange will make one another quite happy. Enjoy the wedding."
He snatched a flute of Champagne from a tray as a House-Elf he didn't recognise went ambling by, and he held it up to the group as he smirked.
"To second chances granted, after more years than we could possibly count. Cheers."
He sipped his Champagne and then wandlessly Vanished the glass into Nonbeing, walking briskly away and leaving Iris, Josephine, and Sadie standing in shock and horror with the wizards among them in confusion.
Voldemort pursed his lips and felt mild irritation as he crossed the ballroom, thinking of how the witches he'd onced plundered in the Slytherin student beds had tried and failed to embarrass him. He thought of Druella Rosier Black, who had spent her own time as a Slytherin warning the other girls not to debase themselves with the upstart, penniless Half-Blood orphan Tom Riddle, and how just a few days earlier she'd been belittling Voldemort just before he'd entered her home. He thought of Juniper Rowle giving it her all to make Bellatrix feel tiny by laying out Tom Riddle's history at the engagement party. Well, Voldemort thought, none of them had gotten what they wanted. Lord Voldemort was not embarrassed. Bellatrix Black was not humiliated. Today, she was to become his lady, and he was to marry into the House of Black. He paused where he stood, suddenly jolted to a stop as the strings and the singer started a new song.
"Go ahead, boy. Go to Brazil. Go to Peru. You know that I would come with you if it were the very thing on Earth that I could do, but I don't have a choice…"
The tragic piece, a semi-modern operatic piece composed by wizarding innovative musician Hanoch Zeitz in the late 19th century, was pining and emotional. Voldemort turned slowly to watch the middle-aged witch sing the piece, and his head whirled as he thought back to the last time he'd heard it.
He'd been dancing with Bellatrix at Narcissa's wedding to Lucius. This piece had been playing; no one had been singing it. A pianist had been playing it instead. She'd been in his arms, her hair tightly yanked back, her body bound into a beautiful gown that somehow didn't quite fit her personality. She had smiled weakly up at him whilst they'd danced. They'd chatted about the war. They'd chatted about the food at the wedding, about Narcissa and Lucius and how in love with one another they were.
And then Voldemort had given her back to Rodolphus.
Now he flicked his eyes up as he listened to the song, and he saw Rodolphus Lestrange standing at a high top table munching food off of a plate - slurping Druella's horrifically expensive oysters, it seemed - with his hand between Josephine Flint's shoulders. Josephine was talking quietly to Hyacinth Avery and Juniper Rowle. Voldemort just smirked. The life he'd been forced to see Bellatrix live for thirteen years would never, ever come to pass. She would not be his. She would not be Rodolphus' wife.
"Oh. Tom. There you are."
"Druella." Voldemort turned and saw the witch who was his own age, who was very soon to be his mother-in-law, come walking up to him in the ballroom. She wore a satin gown of aubergine silk with sleeves that reached the floor and were trimmed in black velvet, embroidered with rich and elaborate black designs in delicate thread. Her greying hair had been piled atop her head in large curls, on which she'd perched a small black velvet hat to match the trim of her robes. She flashed Voldemort a tight little smile and said,
"Bellatrix is very nearly ready, and Cygnus is going to begin moving the guests outside for the ceremony so the House-Elves can get the ballroom back together for the proper reception… it's all so much work, isn't it?"
"Worth it, I should hope." Voldemort sighed slowly. He took a step toward Druella and smoothed his neat, perfectly tailored tuxedo robe. "May I have a word, Druella?"
She shrugged. "Of course."
Voldemort gestured out of the ballroom, and Druella seemed confused, until Voldemort took her into Rosier Keep's corridor where it was significantly quieter than it had been inside the hors d'oeuvres hour. Away from the live music and the din of conversation, Voldemort didn't have to shout as he addressed Druella, and it was with careful consideration that he said,
"I wish to thank you very sincerely. I am well aware that you bore me no good will when we were schoolmates, Druella, and I labour under no delusions that you like me now. I know full well that you still see me as a Half-Blood who spent his school holidays in a Blitz-damaged Muggle orphanage, a social climbing and aspirational hanger-on who has returned from the Cotninent with political ambitions but no ancestral connections like the ones your family has had for centuries. Believe me, Druella, I know. I know what you think of me. And yet, you were the one to suggest this marriage, because you knew it was the right thing for you and for your daughter and for me. And you were right. So thank you, Druella."
She just pinched her lips and said nothing at first. She finally shrugged and said softly, "The only concern I admit to having is that I happen to know how very promiscuous you were at Hogwarts, Tom. Other than mine, I'd hazard a guess that nary a Slytherin skirt escaped you."
"Well." Voldemort smirked and tipped his head. "There was Patience Parkinson who soundly rejected me, but that's because she was in love with a girl. More specifically, with your cousin Hitty Rosier."
"Yes," snarled Druella, "and Hitty was two years younger, and wound up married to that Hufflepuff Fisher Fawley, and now they've got two sons and a daughter. And poor Patience is all alone. In any case, Tom, you slept your way around Slytherin House like an utter philanderer. You were shameless about it. Dragging girls off to the dormitories whilst the Pureblood boys they would later marry skulked in the Common Room embarrassed. The girls thought it was about attention. Don't think I didn't see straight through you."
She crossed her arms over the chest of her deep purple robes and tipped her chin up, staring up at Voldemort. He just stared at her, all hint of glib teasing gone from his face. He nodded, urging her to say what she was thinking. Druella spoke.
"It was all one giant power move for you," she spat. "Girl after girl. You did it to show those Slytherin boys that you could. They were engaged to all of us, but you - you, a Half-Blood orphan without a Sickle to your name - you had the charisma and the magnetism to take a girl to bed and then hand her straight back to the boy she'd been contracted to marry like it was nothing. You could use those Slytherin girls for your pleasure, yes, but also to make a point to all the wizards who would be their husbands. You were dominant over them, even then, and you used their witches to prove it."
Voldemort was silent in response to that. He shrugged just a little, unsure of what exactly the right thing to say would be. It was so long ago for him now. He'd lived fifty-five years. He hadn't done anything like what Druella was discussing - manipulating other students at Hogwarts - for thirty-six years. Even here, even thirteen years into his own past, all those witches were grown, most of them mothers. The wizards were balding, middle-aged men. Wasn't all of that behind them now? Hadn't they all moved on? But Druella said very firmly, in a lethal whisper,
"I am giving you my eldest daughter, Tom Marvolo Riddle. She is incredibly precious to me. Don't you dare use her as a pawn. And don't you dare, not even once, victimise her the way you victimised all of those silly little boys at Hogwarts. If she ever comes crying to me about how you've gone prancing about freely with witches to climb social ladders or make political headway, Tom Riddle, I will castrate you myself."
Druella glared right into Voldemort's eyes and seethed through her teeth, and finally Voldemort found it in himself to inform her sincerely,
"I adore Bellatrix more than you could possibly understand. I admire her mind and I am blinded by her beauty. I am taken aback by her ferocious bravery. I am in awe of her potential. I am, I am not afraid to say, just the tiniest bit in love with your eldest daughter, Druella. So."
Druella's mouth fell open in shock. "Oh."
There was heavy silence for a long moment then, until at last Voldemort said in a light tone,
"Let's go outside. I'm sure the ceremony is going to start any moment."
"My Lord," murmured Bellatrix, and he glanced over to her from his plate of goose to see that she was smiling very broadly at him. "I am so happy."
He reached for her hand and squeezed tightly, his chest clenching. His eyes seared suddenly as his mind flooded again with horrific memories of watching her marry Rodolphus. But that time was gone. He was here with her. Just outside, not an hour before, he'd watched her come down a clearing in the wood with Cygnus, looking like a beautiful glittering phantom. The two of them had made promises in the ancient ways of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, promising in a tongue no one fully understood anymore to be loyal and true. Though Bellatrix couldn't properly do magic outside of school, their marriage vows were tied to a handfasting ceremony performed by a Ministry official, and the binding ribbon would bear the imprint of the ceremony forever. It would be taken back to the Ministry and filed along with their paperwork.
Voldemort had pushed a blackened white gold ring onto Bellatrix's finger, and she'd given him a robust platinum ring with three square inlaid onyx stones. The entire gathered group had sung two songs about love and devotion, and Narcissa and Andromeda had read passages from wizarding literature about love. Then the violin had sounded out in joyful triumph, and Conjured doves had taken flight, and Bellatrix had leaned up onto her toes to receive Voldemort's kiss. He'd kissed her for too long, perhaps, pushing back the hood of her tulle cloak and burrowing his fingers into her perfectly coiffed curls and mussing the elegant twisted updo. He had pressed his face hard against hers until her knees had gone weak and she'd grappled with the crisp white shirt of his tuxedo robes, and finally he'd heard wolf whistles and laughter. At long last, he'd released her, realising that after thirteen years of wanting nothing more than to just tell her she'd done a fine job fighting or that she looked pretty today, she was his wife. She was his. Entirely his.
Now they were inside at the head table, with Narcissa and Andromeda to Bellatrix's left and Abraxas and Lucius Malfoy to Voldemort's right. Voldemort watched as Bellatrix talked briefly with Narcissa, whose blonde and brown hair had been styled into loose waves and who wore an age-appropriate gown of deep purple the same shade as Druella's. As Voldemort speared a roasted carrot and a parsnip, his eyes settled on Bellatrix again, and he was utterly in awe. The Rosier tiara glittered atop her dark hair, and she had diamond stud earrings in. Her eyes were only lightly shadowed, but she wore very bold, shiny red lipstick that was begging for more kisses. The star pendant he'd crafted for her from diamonds, the one he'd made to honour the star Bellatrix, rested beautifully upon her chest, its glittering nature echoed by the sparkly black gown she wore. Bellatrix was a vision in darkness, a bride like no other had ever been. Voldemort gazed out upon the crowed of revelers and put out the feelers of Legilimency, seeking thoughts about Bellatrix, curious to know what people were thinking about her right now.
She looks like a wicked princess. It's positively delicious, Bram Travers was thinking. Beside him, Bram's wife Freya was happily eating goose and parsnips, oblivious to the way her husband was ogling the bride. Voldemort kept feeling around.
I wasn't expecting her to wear black. It isn't as though I was going to wear black, but now no one at all is going to remember my wedding, or anyone's from earlier this summer, for that matter. The girl's gone and completely commandeered the social calendar just by showing up at her own wedding looking like some sort of damned sexy wraith. It isn't fair!
Voldemort choked a little laugh into his glass of red wine at that. He looked to see where the thought was coming from and saw it was Eluned Lestrange, Rodolphus' new cousin by marriage. Eluned was pretty enough, with honey-coloured hair that reached her shoulders and big blue eyes, but her beauty was nowhere near Bellatrix's. And Voldemort had been at her wedding to Royal Lestrange in June; it had been a pleasant but simple affair where Eluned had worn a wispy white dress and had carried multicoloured flowers, where lemon chiffon cake and fizzy drinks had been served with poached salmon. It was as Eluned was complaining in her mind. Her wedding had been fine. But this wedding was extraordinary, and, more specifically, Bellatrix Black Riddle was by far the most unforgettable and heavy-hitting bride of the season.
"Sir," said Abraxas, and Voldemort turned his head, snapping his focus on Eluned Lestrange. He smiled a little at his old friend and nodded. Abraxas flicked up the corner of his lips and asked,
"Miss Black tells me that you have made a book list for her studies for the autumn. I've no doubt you'll do a better job with her education than Dippet and Dumbledore."
"It isn't Miss Black any longer, Abraxas," Voldemort noted. Then he realised how much he loathed the thought of her going by Madam Riddle, for that surname was his Muggle father's. He scowled and licked his lips, thinking that, at least for the time being, it was the best he could give her.
"Oh. Of course. My apologies, sir," Abraxas amended quickly. He cut himself his last remaining piece of roast goose and chewed it. As he did, Voldemort snuck a glance over to Bellatrix. She was sipping her wine, and she was almost oppressively pretty. Her lips were shiny; her dress was glittery. Her diamonds shone in the glow of the floating fairy lights. She met his eyes and then touched at the necklace he'd made for her, the pendant he'd made for her namesake star, and she nodded happily.
Not long after that, it was time to cut the cake, and Voldemort led Bellatrix down from the head table to where the House-Elves had brought the enormous cake - seven square layers of cream frosting with edible pearls in decorative patterns - out to the centre of the floor. Bellatrix's huge train had been removed from her gown, so that her enormous black skirts didn't drag so badly now. Still, her dress was heavy and commanded its own presence as she took her place beside Voldemort. As he used his wand to slice into the cake, he murmured,
"Shall I do what the Bulstrodes did earlier this year and smash it all over your face?"
"Oh, please don't, Master," Bellatrix begged helplessly, but Voldemort flashed her a serious look and assured her,
"I would never debase either of us by doing such a thing, Bella. Here. It's apricot marzipan, just for you."
She grinned broadly as he spooned some of the cake into her mouth, and as she swallowed the bite, the crowd of Pureblood vulgus assembled roared with approval. The House-Elves came and whisked the cake away so that Kip and Dobby could go carve it up into pieces and serve it to the guests, and in the meantime, Voldemort led Bellatrix out toward the dance floor. He knew, intellectually, that Muggles were wont to do maudlin endeavours regarding father-daughter dances and then first dances between the bride and groom before the others could join in. Luckily, at a Pureblood wedding, things ran a bit differently. Voldemort was glad for that, for he thought he'd positively melt with humiliation were he made to make a great emotional show of himself in front of the people he craved as followers.
He and Bellatrix adjusted themselves into a formal waltz stance, and she smiled up at him with straight white teeth and wide doe eyes, looking for all the world like a witch who had not yet tasted death. He felt a little twinge then, and he tipped his head as he informed her,
"You need to kill as soon as possible."
Her face shifted a little then. If he'd expected surprise, or perhaps even contumacy, he instead was met with a steely look of bright-eyed conviction as Bellatrix's fingers cinched on Voldemort and she whispered,
"I shall kill for you the moment the Trace is gone, Master."
"Mmph." He held fast to her waist as all the other couples of honour took their places on the dance floor. Cygnus and Druella, Narcissa and Lucius, Abraxas and Tullia, and Andromeda with her chosen partner, Yahya Shafiq, had all come onto the floor. The strings and singer started up a beautiful waltz, and the dancers all swept into motion in a great unified movement. They all knew what they were doing. Even the youngest among them, even little Narcissa and Lucius, had years of practise at these stuffy social functions. And what none of these people realised, Bellatrix included, was that Lord Voldemort had lived fifty-five years and had thus been dancing at things like weddings for far longer than he was letting on.
As Voldemort swayed with Bellatrix, his steps steady and sure, she moved with him easily. The two of them fit together perfectly, though they had even in the years where they'd danced far more distantly. Voldemort wanted to tell her, suddenly, that he remembered times he'd held her in his arms and danced with her and she'd been Rodolphus' wife. He'd wanted to kiss her, had wanted to whisper that she was beautiful, but he'd never once had the courage. Now she was his. He just stared down at her, at the wedding rings on her left hand and at the diamond necklace he'd made for her, and then up at her very young face full of passion and promise, and he found himself somewhat helplessly whispering,
"I am in love with you."
She just blinked at him, her ruby lips parting in wonder. Her steps faltered for a half second, but he righted her. He did not hesitate. He had no regrets at all about what he'd said. He knew, after all, that it had been an undeniable truth for many years now. Long ago, he had thought himself entirely incapable of love. He used to think that wizards who convinced themselves they loved witches were fools at best and weak at worst. It was a ridiculous idea, he'd told himself back then. Romance. Love. What sort of blithering idiot would surrender even a sliver of his soul to another human being? In exchange for what? Affection? Tenderness? Devotion, perhaps? What was love, even in its most unadulterated form, but self-sacrifice and feebleness?
With the passing of the years, though, Voldemort had seen how wrong he'd been. As he'd watched Bellatrix nearly die on the battlefield more than once, as he'd feared for her life, as he'd yearned for her beauty and craved her touch, as he'd wished for the sound of her voice whispering in his ear, he'd felt the thrum of love for her in his chest at long last. He'd realised, somewhere around Christmas of 1977, that he loved her deeply, irrevocably. There was no helping it. Perhaps it made him weak. Did it matter? It did not feel, somehow, like a thing that made him weak. It felt twisted, like a broken and and demented love between an unhinged infatuate and his married, maniacal liege. In any case, he would never tell her he loved her, so it did not matter.
But here he was, dancing with her, and she was his wife, and he'd just told her. So he nodded, and he brushed his thumb over hers, and he whispered again,
"I do. I love you, Bella."
"I love you, too, Master," she replied at once, her voice quaking and her eyes filling with tears. He smiled, feeling happier than he could remember feeling in a very long while. He nodded and reminded her,
"You'll kill for me. Just as soon as the Trace is gone. Now. Keep dancing, Bellatrix. Everyone is watching you."
Author's Note: Thank you so much for your patience in waiting for this upload! The holiday season is soooooooo bonkers with so much going on! Eeek! I am grateful for your patience, and I'll try to upload whenever I can! In the meantime, your readership and feedback is appreciated.