"My Lord?" Bellatrix called, standing before the full-length mirror. "We should hurry; you told them we would be there at noon. It's seven minutes until the hour."
"I know. I can't… my hair isn't laying flat for some reason." He sounded tense and irritated. Bellatrix smirked a little. She smoothed her knee-length black A-line skirt and adjusted the cap sleeves on her matching bustier. She primped her curls, which she'd shined and neatened with Sleekeazy's, and she touched at her diamond star pendant. She stalked through the bedroom, past the stout green bed, and into the bathroom she shared with Lord Voldemort. He was inside, dressed in bespoke lightweight dark green robes. He'd neatly parted his hair and combed it, but it appeared he'd accidentally applied a bit too much pomade, and the wave was sitting awkwardly.
"Please, may I?" Bellatrix asked. Voldemort huffed a breath and handed over his metal comb. He bent down a bit, and Bellatrix combed quickly through his hair a few times to work through the product. She stroked at his cheek with her other hand and said quietly, "I've had my fair share of battling unruly hair, Master."
"You are a good wife," he whispered, "agreeing to go to this luncheon. Don't think I don't know it."
Bellatrix said nothing at first. She just gulped and felt her stomach twist. She combed Voldemort's hair neatly into the style she knew he wanted, and she urged him to stand. She put his comb on the side of the sink and shrugged helplessly, chomping her lip.
"May I ask you one simple question, My Lord? I just want to know one thing."
He met her eyes and nodded. He reached for her carefully, cupping her jaw, his thumb dragging along her lower lip as though he were somewhat desperate for a kiss. But he just stared down at her as Bellatrix asked,
"How many of them did you love? You lost your virginity to Sadie Crouch Lestrange; did you love her? Iris Greengrass Flint. She was beneath you in bed. The other Slytherin girls. And you gave Freya Travers a son. You didn't mean to, I know, but she bore you a boy, didn't she? So… how many of them did you love, Master?"
He scoffed and lowered his eyes, shaking his head. He stared at his shiny dragonhide boots and sounded a bit forlorn as he admitted,
"I have lived fifty-five years, Bellatrix, and in all that time, I have loved but one witch. Only one." He raised his eyes then. "You."
He caressed her curls for a long moment then as they just stood in silence and stared at one another. Bellatrix examined his face and thought back to the dreams she'd had, the visions where she'd seen him older and scarred. Then she tried to imagine him much younger and very handsome, the Tom Riddle who had wooed all the Slytherin girls, and then later a youthful but married and unfaithful Freya Travers. Bellatrix felt a horrifying spike of anxiety go through her as her mind cooked up a whirling sort of film in her mind, a hypothetical idea of what must have happened. She could see it; she could see the sharply-angled face of a smirking Tom Riddle as he flirted with dark-haired Freya, who would have come into the shop without Bram Travers. The two of them would have bantered and perhaps touched one another lightly until Tom had gently taken Freya's fingers in his and pulled her into the back of the store, and then clothes would have been stripped off, and kisses exchanged… things probably grew frenetic and urgent, for passion was often as its most steamy under frantic circumstances. Bellatrix could hear Freya moaning, Tom, Tom. She could feel her own husband's panting hot breath as he thrust into Freya Travers' body, as he empties his seed into the married young witch and unknowingly impregnated her with the child that would grow to be Bellatrix's peer at Hogwarts…
Suddenly she was tearing herself away from Voldemort in the bathroom, whirling on a foot and walking quickly out through the bedroom. She fought not to cry, not to show anger or indignation. It wasn't his fault, she told herself. He hadn't known. He hadn't meant to put a child in Freya all those years ago. Bellatrix hadn't even been born then. It was hardly as though he'd owed her loyalty at that point. It would be completely unreasonable for her to feel envy, much less rage, over any of this. And, anyway, she was his servant before all else. She stood at the foot of the bed and dragged her flat satin shoe along the rug, curling herself against her folded arms and letting her hair fall around her face as she took a trembling breath.
"Bella," Voldemort said quietly, stepping up alongside her. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he reached carefully for her left hand and dragged his thumb over her rings. He touched at the dark grey salt and pepper diamond he'd crafted for her. His fingers curled around hers and then drew her hand up to his face, bringing her knuckles to his lips. He kissed her there, touching his mouth very gently to her fingers, and he gazed mournfully down at her. Bellatrix stared at his cheek and whispered,
"You had a horrid scar, Master, in my dreams. What happened to you?"
He quirked up his lips a little and tipped his head. "It happened in Cornwall in 1977. You had personally taken out three enemies already, but you were getting badly worn down fighting Alastor Moody. He hit you with a Blood on Fire Curse, and you collapsed in agony. I dashed in front of you, hoping to help. I aimed my wand at Moody, ready to take him out. Suddenly, from my left, someone - I never figured out who - launched a Blasting Curse. Rocks flew at me and tore me to shreds. I was bleeding all over. I nearly lost an eye. Even with all the healing possible afterward, all the spells and potions and all of it, I was left badly scarred and nearly blind in that eye. It didn't matter. The war damaged all of us."
Bellatrix just gaped. Voldemort kissed her fingers again, and as she blinked slowly up at him, he murmured onto her fingers,
"I remember lying in bed at Malfoy Manor with Tullia Malfoy fussing over me like a mother hen, drizzling Dittany onto my face every few hours, dropping Anodyne Draught between my lips. I summoned Rodolphus to ask how you were doing. He said you were fine. I told him to bring you to me. I remember being very tired from the Anodyne, lying there healing in bed at the Manor, and you came to call, and all I could do was mumble your name over and over like a fool."
Bellatrix's eyes burned. She shook her head. "I'm sure I worried ferociously over you then, Master."
He shrugged a little and looked away. "I don't know. Perhaps you did. I worried about you all the time. That's why… that's why I mean to ensure this time round that there is absolutely no chance of you falling in battle. It was such an awful fear I had. I refuse to face that spectre again."
Bellatrix scowled and pulled her hand down from his lips slowly. "How do you mean to protect me from death on the battlefield, My Lord?"
He pursed his lips and put his hands on his hips. "We'll discuss it some other time. Suffice it to say that I've got a plan. Now. I really am very sorry to ask you to go to this luncheon, but we're already going to be late."
"Right." Bellatrix put her mouth into a straight line. She straightened her curls and her spine, and she nervously asked her husband, "Do I… do I look all right?"
He gave her a slightly sad look and nodded. "So very beautiful. Come, Bella."
"Welcome, sir! Madam Riddle." boomed Bram Travers as Voldemort walked into Travers Gardens with his hand protectively placed between Bellatrix's shoulders. Travers Gardens was an elegant country home, Victorian and luxurious, but not nearly as grand as some of the other families' elaborate estates, and not even as impressive as Praelia House. Still, as Voldemort came inside, he noted the one thing about Travers Gardens that everyone always took heed of.
"I see the bouvardia and dahlias outside are doing splendidly, Bram."
"Ah, yes. My dear Freya does tend so nicely to my family's ancestral flowers. I tell her to let the House Elves do it, but she says it relieves stress for her to be out there with dirty knees and muddy gloves." Bram laughed uproariously. "Please, please. Come in. Freya told me everything you said at the ladies' brunch at the Malfoys'. I do hope you know I'm exceedingly interested in what you've got in mind for wizarding Britain."
"I'd be quite keen on receiving periodic owls from you," Voldemort said cautiously, "with wisely worded but comprehensive summaries of the goings-on in your Ministry department. It is very good, you know, to have… informative… friendships all over the place as one develops a thing such as this."
"Quite so! Shall we say, every Friday I'll write to you? Unless, of course, something of note comes up more immediately?" Bram asked. He was leading Voldemort down a narrow, dark-paneled corridor to an intimate but exquisitely decorated dining room. Voldemort gave a crisp nod, and Bram confirmed, "That settles it, then. You can count on me, sir, as a friend of yours and a friend of… you know, of your plans."
He turned his attention to Bellatrix, and his eyes flicked up and down the young witch's form. Voldemort remembered, suddenly, the way Bram had been ogling Bellatrix at the wedding, and he scowled to himself. Bram turned his lips up and said smoothly,
"If you don't mind me saying so, Madam Riddle, you're looking absolutely lovely today."
Bellatrix's cheeks went visibly red. She appeared to force a small smile in response to what Bram had said, and she huffed out,
"Thanks very much, Mr Travers."
Voldemort felt oddly protective again, for some reason. As he followed Bram into the dining room, he put his hand back onto Bellatrix's back and gently guided her as if he were ensuring no harm could come to her, though, of course, she wasn't in any actual danger.
Inside the dining room, Freya Travers and a young wizard were seated, but they rose when Voldemort walked in with Bellatrix. Freya had dressed up, it seemed; she wore a nicely tailored summer-weight silk dress that hugged her form, made from periwinkle material that looked expensive. Around her shoulders and lithe arms, she'd draped a matching periwinkle shawl with black tassels, and atop her slightly greying hair, she'd perched an elegant little black velvet fascinator. She'd meticulously applied makeup and wore simple but fine silver jewelry. She had tried, it seemed, to look pretty, not like an ageing wife and mother. Voldemort sighed. Then he turned his attention to the boy.
He had seen this young wizard on several occasions, at several social functions, but he'd never paid the boy any heed. He'd never had any reason to do so. In the years he had lived, Bram Travers had been an obscure Ministry plant who had sent owls to inform the movement of happenings in his department, but he'd never become a Death Eater. And Voldemort had never been told by Freya Travers of any son from their dalliance. He hadn't known anything about Freya's children in those years. This Thomas Travers would have been thirty when Voldemort had disappeared trying to kill Harry Potter. He could have gone into the Ministry, like Bram. Voldemort would have known if he'd become a Blood Traitor in the Order of the Phoenix; he'd not done that.
In any case, now that Voldemort stood looking at the young man, the physical resemblance to his younger self was absolutely uncanny. This Thomas Travers bore the exact same sharp angles in his jaw that young Tom Riddle had worn. His jet-black hair, so different from Bram's sandy blond mane, was wavy in precisely the same way as Voldemort's. His eyes were exactly the same shape as Tom Riddle's had been, and the same colour. He had Freya's delicate ski-jump nose instead of Tom Riddle's more stocky Aquiline version, and he had Freya's slightly shorter stature instead of the tall, lanky build Tom had had in his youth. But there was no denying this boy at all. To be certain, this young wizard was the product of what had happened that day in Borgin and Burke's. Voldemort's heart thunked like metal on metal in his chest, and his fingers cinched tightly between Bellatrix's shoulders. He felt her tense beneath his touch. She flicked her eyes to him, and when he glanced down to her, he realised that her face bore an odd expression that he simply could not read.
"Welcome to Travers Gardens, Madam Riddle," said Freya Travers very warmly. "I must say, you were just the most beautiful bride. Everyone thinks so. The entire wedding was fabulous, but you… you, my dear, were magnificent."
"Oh, thank you, Mrs Travers." Bellatrix seemed very nervous then, and Voldemort twitched a bit as Freya approached and said warmly,
"Please, call me Freya. You're a grown, married witch now. No need to stand on formality. You know, Bram and I went to school with your husband."
"Oh, yes, I know." Bellatrix let out a quivering breath. "And I went to school with your son. Hullo, Tom."
She waved a bit behind Freya to where the boy who so neatly resembled the young Tom Riddle stood. He held up a hand in greeting and said softly,
"Hello, Bellatrix. I heard you're not coming back to Hogwarts. I was disappointed about that, but I understand. I'm a bit jealous, really."
"Not everyone has a spouse more qualified to teach them than the Hogwarts professors, my boy," joked Bram. "Let's sit and eat, shall we?"
Voldemort held out Bellatrix's chair for her, and she numbly sat and just stared across the table to where Thomas Travers sat beside his mother. Bram, as the head of the household, sat at the head of the table. Food appeared on the plates, and Freya announced quite proudly,
"A favourite recipe of mine. Sea trout, new potatoes, and asparagus. Please enjoy."
After a few moments of everyone taking bites in silence, Bellatrix told Freya very diplomatically,
"The food is positively delicious, Freya. Your House Elf must be a very fine cook."
"Thank you," Freya grinned. "I do instruct little old Pash very closely on recipes I prefer. I have a most particular taste for fine cuisine."
"Our dear Freya has a most particular taste for all fine things!" Bram boomed from his seat. "She knows what she likes. When she sees something she wants, she does whatever she must in order to have it for herself. Isn't that right, darling?"
"It has been my way for a long time, it's true," Freya conceded, and Voldemort felt his ears go hot. He glanced at the boy, Thomas, who was eating his sea trout in silence and periodically looking at Bellatrix, who was staring back at her old Slytherin friend. Voldemort finally set down his knife and fork and glared at Freya, thinking intently, Legilimens.
Freya gasped as Voldemort crashed into her mind. She almost dropped her goblet of fizzy water, but managed to set it down as Voldemort careened through her thoughts and memories. He fished about, knowing exactly what he wanted, knowing Freya couldn't stop him. Her mind was weak. She had no ability to keep him out or conceal anything. He would have the truth in a scant moment. And then, very suddenly, there it was, playing out before him like a Muggle film.
"The boy doesn't look like me at all, Freya. His hair and eyes are dark as pitch. Every single Travers is fair. It isn't possible… I don't want to accuse you. I don't like saying you're lying. I just can't believe -"
"What do you believe, then, Bram?"
Bram snapped then. He stared at the small boy playing on the ground and then at the pregnant Freya. He tossed his book onto the divan.
"Don't think I'm stupid, Freya. You confessed it to me afterward; you were sobbing, you were sorry. Just once, you said. One silly mistake. We all knew he was running about with you girls during school. Somehow the other witches managed to leave him behind once they grew up. But not you."
"It was one time, Bram. Like I said." Freya choked out a sob, cradling her heavy belly, swollen with the child that certainly was Bram's. "I let myself be seduced by him one final time before he vanished. I admit it. He's gone; no one even knows where he went. What does it matter now? Thomas is being raised by you. He's a Travers. That's what counts."
"I'll always know," Bram hissed softly, jabbing his finger at the young, oblivious boy on the ground. "I will always know that your son is… is a… is…"
"Is a what, Bram?" Freya whispered. Bram's eyes welled with tears, and he threw up his hands.
"I will always know, Freya, that your son is a bastard."
Voldemort drew slowly, carefully out of Freya's mind so that she wouldn't feel queasy and so that the entire endeavour would be as inconspicuous as possible. Just the same, it was obvious something had happened, and Bram and Thomas looked on curiously. Bellatrix just sighed and sipped from her goblet. Voldemort stared very, very intently at Freya, who looked abruptly embarrassed. She touched her napkin to her lips and murmured gently,
"Thomas, did you… did you tell Bellatrix about the broomsticks the Slytherin Quidditch team received?"
Thomas gave his mother a quizzical look, still seeming puzzled by what had transpired between Freya and Voldemort. He finally turned his attention to Bellatrix and shrugged.
"Latest models, you know. We'll be so much faster than Gryffindor this term. We'll win every match for certain."
"Your confidence is striking," Voldemort said sharply. "As Keeper, surely you must guarantee such a thought with skilfull guarding of the hoops, eh? It's one thing to have the most efficient equipment, but if the other team scores goals you fail to stop and racks up so many points that your incredibly fast Seeker can't overwhelm them by catching the Snitch, then… what's the point?"
An awkward silence came over the table. Freya lowered her face a little, and Bellatrix said amiably,
"You'll be fine, Tom; you know those Gryffindor Chasers have terrible accuracy no matter what broomsticks they're riding. And, anyway, you're by far the best Keeper out of the four at the school. Everyone knows so."
"Thanks, Bellatrix," mumbled Thomas. He shot Voldemort a rather dark look and then speared a potato. Voldemort glanced over to Bram and suddenly realised that everyone at the table knew the truth; everyone knew that Voldemort was Thomas' father. Except, perhaps, for Thomas himself. Voldemort wasn't certain whether or not the boy had any idea that Bram Travers, in whose ancestral home he'd been raised, whose name he bore, was of no blood relation whatsoever. Voldemort sniffed lightly and narrowed his eyes as he looked across the table at the young wizard he now knew to be his own offspring.
"Ianosssiassoth? Kyanothosssi athiassossia ssomathiass."
Bram and Freya Travers looked utterly shocked to hear Lord Voldemort hissing at their son in Parseltongue, but Bellatrix did not. She just glanced between her husband and his illegitimate son who had been her school peer. As for Thomas, the boy sat up straight, his mouth falling open in shock. His coal-black eyes went round with surprise and glistened as though realisation had come over him. He nodded a little in acknowledgment, for Voldemort had asked if the boy understood him, saying that people said he could speak with snakes.
"Imassanotha," Thomas hissed in response to Voldemort, eliciting a gasp from Freya and a little grunt of shock from Bram Travers. Bellatrix huffed a breath. Thomas continued, "Pamassossa assamossatho iossi ssassi nassimassio."
Voldemort slowly nodded and turned to Bellatrix. He reached for his young wife's hand and took it in his own, squeezing at her fingers. He gave her a very meaningful look and told her in a stony voice,
"It is odd, don't you think, the things we inherit, Bella? And so strange, the way the years toy with us so. I find myself satisfied… when it comes to sea trout. I might like to take you home and smother you with kisses if you wouldn't mind."
If he had expected Bellatrix to be emotional right now, if he'd expected her to shirk back at Voldemort having made it plain to everyone present that Thomas was indeed his son and that Voldemort was very aware of that, the opposite was true. Bellatrix sat with pin-straight posture, her chin tipped up proudly, a demure and peaceful expression on her gorgeous face. She tightened her own grip around Voldemort's fingers and nodded.
"Master," she said softly, "You must have whatever you'd like, as always. If kisses from your silly little wife is what you desire, then so be it. You know I shall always give you exactly what you want."
Voldemort felt an odd surge in his abdomen then, and he reached to cup Bellatrix's jaw. He leaned then and touched his lips softly to hers, and he flicked his eyes to Freya for a moment, glancing at the way the witch had so meticulously dressed in periwinkle silk. Voldemort turned back to Bellatrix and said,
"Right now, Bella, I want you and nothing else. So come home with me, will you?"
"Of course, My Lord," she hummed, nodding. She pulled back just a little and said, calmly and confidently, "Thank you so much for hosting us, Mr and Mrs Travers. Thomas. So good to see you. Do send my regards to Rodolphus and his new flame Josephine when you see the lot of them at Hogwarts in a few weeks' time. Best of luck to you with Quidditch."
She rose then, and as Voldemort walked hand in hand with her from the dining room, he glanced back and said quite stiffly to Bram Travers,
"Owls weekly, then, Travers, reporting to me from the Ministry."
Bram just nodded silently from where he sat in numb shock at the dining room table. Voldemort smirked and gave a little wave. He and Bellatrix didn't even wait until they were outside to Disapparate; they vanished into the ether straight out of Travers Gardens' paneled foyer.
Author's Note: I continue to update whenever I can given the chaos of the holiday season. Your continued patience is appreciated. Please do let me know your thoughts. Your feedback is dearly appreciated.