"Your poor wife is the youngest person at her own party, I'm afraid, sir," said Abraxas Malfoy, stepping up to Lord Voldemort and sipping from his spiced apple fizz. He chewed his oat and fig biscuit and glanced around the gardens of Malfoy Manor, which were beautifully illuminated in the dusk that had fallen. "It isn't the same, is it? Having a party without any of the other children here?"

"Bellatrix is not a child, Abraxas," Voldemort snarled, feeling abruptly angry with his old ally. Abraxas turned back to him, his cheeks reddening a little. He visibly gulped and bowed his head.

"I beg your pardon, My Lord," he said, and Voldemort realised the man had picked up on Bellatrix's use of the honourific at last. Abraxas cleared his throat. "I misspoke. I meant only that parties around this house are a bit lonesome without the generation that steamed off to Hogwarts a few weeks past. I beg your pardon for my clumsiness."

"Hm." Voldemort pursed his lips. He sipped from his own drink, a tumbler of Blishen's Firewhisky served neat. It was only his second glass of the stuff, but he was feeling it a little. He decided, though, to mend things with Abraxas, for the sake of Bellatrix's seventeenth birthday. Today was not her real birthday; Voldemort had insisted on hoarding the actual day all for himself. This party was the evening of Friday the twentieth, the night before Bellatrix came of age.

"I know Bella was sad to see her sisters go," Voldemort said, taking another small sip of whisky. "But let's just say I hardly think your son Lucius minds going off to be at Hogwarts with my wife's little sister Narcissa. I foresee a wedding in a few years' time, Abraxas. We shall be family, you and I."

Abraxas smirked and raised his glass a little. "As you well know, sir, there are few honours higher than a marriage into the House of Black. And I know Cygnus would be glad for his little girl to inherit Malfoy Manor. So everyone would win, eh?"

"Indeed. If you don't mind, I'm off to seize my wife for a dance," Voldemort said, twitching his lips up into a mirthless little smile of acknowledgment. Abraxas bowed, more respectfully than he had done in the past, and Voldemort took a moment to savour the deference before he turned to walk away. He set his tumbler of whisky down on the tray of a passing server, some stray obscure Squib relative of the Bulstrodes who sometimes worked at family functions like these. Voldemort scowled at the young wizard as he passed; would that boy participate in the Squibs' rights marches that were fast approaching?

Suddenly a spike went through Voldemort. The Squibs' rights marches. Certainly, they would happen in this time, just as they'd happened in his lived time. He'd already met about the chatter from Squibs with a few of his close friends and allies, including Abraxas and Igor Karkaroff, with Avery and Carrow and a few others. The plan was to be far more intimidating this time around. But he hadn't been planning on having Bellatrix's wand. She would be at Hogwarts during the marches. Except… except she wouldn't. She would be at home, with him, armed with a wand. Of course, if he let her riot, she'd be obvious. She would get fingered by the Ministry and named an Undesirable, possibly far too early in the game. Voldemort frowned deeply to himself. Perhaps he ought not let her fight. The last thing he needed was to lose her to Azkaban. She could make a Horcrux to shield her soul from death, but if they locked her up, where he couldn't reach her…

He resolved to hold off putting Bellatrix into combat until his movement was stronger, until he was more powerful, until Albus Dumbledore was dead, which he intended on being the case much sooner this time around. Until then, he thought, Bellatrix's atrocities would be committed silently, secretly, where no one could catch her, where no one could snatch her from Voldemort. Perhaps it would be some time before he would once again witness her standing on a battlefield, bathed by a sheet of rain as she screamed out Curses and took out enemies with vicious abandon as the chaos of war surrounded her. But he had always been so terrified in those moments, frightened that she would die, that someone would capture her.

There had always been the sense that Bellatrix's tie to him had been as tense and fragile as a violin string when they'd been in a battle. When they'd had a great victory, Voldemort would go home to Danby and collapse into bed and laugh and touch himself to the thought of kissing her, of her laughing onto his lips as he smelled smoke in her curls and felt the grit of dirt from the battlefield on her skin. When the battles had been messy, when there had been casualties or when they'd just barely escaped, Voldemort would sometimes go to his office at Malfoy Manor and sip Blishen's until his head was swimming, wrenching his eyes shut and berating himself for coming so close to losing Bellatrix. His Bellatrix.

There had always been so much more at stake than the movement, than his personal power. There had always been her to consider in all of it.

So she would have to wait to fight here, he thought. She would need to be patient, and so would he, because it was as he'd apparently told her in his own past, drugged through with Anodyne Draught as she'd hovered over him in Malfoy Manor. She was precious to him. She was the most precious thing of all. Suddenly he realised something, and he stopped walking across the grass. He remembered when he'd danced with her at Christmas and commented on her diamond star pendant, the one he'd given her for her birthday. She'd stared up at him with desperate tears in her eyes, searching him, looking for something within his gaze, and she'd told him that the necklace was precious to her. Perhaps, he thought now, she'd been hoping to trigger something, a memory. Perhaps she'd been trying, in that instant, to make him remember kissing her after the battle. But he hadn't remembered; he'd barrelled on asking her about burning down Maura Henson's cottage. And then he'd handed her back to Rodolphus Lestrange.

Now, standing in Malfoy Manor's gardens on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, he felt overcome with something he could not quite pin down. It was not regret, exactly, for he had her now in a way he had never dreamed of being able to possess her. But he wished, very seriously, that he could revisit that Christmas dance with her and whisper to her that he loved her ferociously, that she, as a warrior, truly lived up to her name. He wished he could go back to that Christmas dance and stop his feet from moving and draw her up and crush her mouth right there in front of everyone, in front of Rodolphus, tasting her and humming onto her and feeling her melt against him. He wished he could go back and hear Rodolphus' impish, drunken voice demand his wife back, and to refuse entirely, to pull Bellatrix back and to inform Rodolphus that she belonged to the Dark Lord. But he couldn't do any of that. That time was gone. That existence was somewhere else, or perhaps it had dissolved into Non-Being like something Vanished through a simple Evanesco cast by a wooden wand. Perhaps it was as simple as that; the timeline was no more. The memories were just that. Dreams and whispers, hauntings in the night. All that mattered, Voldemort supposed, glancing down at his left hand to where Bellatrix had put a stout ring upon his finger, was that she was his wife here. She'd made vows to him, pledged herself to him.

Well, he thought. She'd pledged herself in marriage. But she had not yet pledged herself in the way that he wanted more than any other way, for he'd wished to make that binding on her real birthday, as a gift to them both. He huffed a breath and looked up, seeing Bellatrix standing in a cluster of witches much older than her and looking profoundly uncomfortable and unimaginably beautiful.

She was dressed in a creation by Thabo Shacklebolt, another winning achievement by the incredibly stylish designer. It was a black chiffon dress with translucent long sleeves, cut in an elegant fit and flare shape that gave Bellatrix curves Voldemort hadn't known she'd possessed. It was like Thabo had crafted them miraculously through careful cuts and seams. Her waist and hips looked more womanly tonight than they'd looked in this time; she seemed more like the witch of thirty he'd left behind that night he'd had Spanish Rioja with her just before going off to kill Harry Potter. She glanced over at him now, though, and her face was so very young, kissed with youth in a way he hardly remembered from that time he'd left behind.

He could, if he tried, remember her as a Hogwarts student in that life he'd lived. He did recall her, shamelessly flirting with boys and grown wizards alike before her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange. He remembered her giggling all the time in her youth, and he remembered the way she'd seemed to settle and grow more serious and stoic and even a bit cool after her marriage. Voldemort gulped now, thinking of the way she'd looked at perhaps nineteen years of age, in an early Death Eaters' meeting, still so young and gorgeous, still fairly newly wed, looking upon Voldemort with her wide doe eyes and seeming like a bloodthirsty doll ripe for the worst sort of corruption. And corrupt her Voldemort did, at least by training her with Occlumency and unleashing her on his enemies, and praising her for her war crimes. But he'd never kissed her, never touched her, never told her she was beautiful.

Or so he'd thought. As it turned out, he had done so. And for four years after he'd done so, Bellatrix had carried the knowledge of it like a priceless but dangerous secret. There had been the Christmas party where she'd hinted at it, saying her necklace was precious to her, echoing his own words to him, searching his gaze with watery, desperate eyes.

Voldemort chomped his lip now and stared at Bellatrix across the Malfoys' garden. She flashed him a little smile and sipped at her goblet of wine. Voldemort smirked at her a little; he knew she was cheating a bit by drinking wine a day before her birthday whilst there were Ministry employees swarming the party. But who would dare go ratting her out about it now that she was the wife of Voldemort, who had recently been gathering allies more boldly? And, anyway, she was less than twelve hours away from legally coming of age. One of the witches in the pack around Bellatrix touched at her elbow to get her attention, and she turned her face away from Voldemort. He frowned, resolved to dance with her, and continued walking toward the group.

As he approached, he realised he'd had sex with literally every single witch gathered in the cluster, and for some reason, the thought of that made him so nauseated he wanted to vomit on the grass. It made him feel stupid and cheap now, looking at them all and realising he'd slammed himself into their nymphlike bodies to make their teenaged boyfriends green with envy. It made him feel like he'd been so desperate with ambition that he'd been willing to let them all see him nude, to let them all feel the slick of his sweat, to taste his tongue in their mouths and to let them all whisper and moan and even shriek his name. He winced now at the compounded memory of it all, feeling like a vulgar cretin who had been as thoroughly used as the girls had been.

He forced the bile down his throat as he approached the witches, and as they realised he was walking up, they all gave him pleasant looks. Agnes Carrow flicked her eyes up and down at Voldemort, who had come in newly-tailored hunter-green wool robes with black piping. She tipped her head and sipped her own cocktail, saying coquettishly,

"My, Tom… don't you look dashing."

Voldemort couldn't think of Agnes then as the pretty young Slytherin she'd been when he'd shagged her. All she was now was a married witch, the mother of twins that Voldemort had not fathered, a middle-aged woman ogling him with hungry eyes in a way that made him abjectly uncomfortable. Bellatrix's mouth visibly fell open at the way Agnes had complimented her husband, and she looked a bit offended. Voldemort huffed. He nodded crisply.

"You know Thabo Shacklebolt. He does fine work with textiles. He made Bella's beautiful new black dress. She looks so perfect in it that I could not resist coming to fetch her, I admit."

"How romantic," purred Tullia Malfoy. "A wizard in love with his bride, just in time for her birthday." She grinned broadly and looked from Voldemort to his young wife.

Voldemort eyed Tullia and remembered his trysts with her, deeply regretting them now. He thought that Tullia probably regretted it all, too. She'd only gone along with the entire endeavour because all of the other Slytherin girls - except Druella Rosier, of course - were doing so. And Abraxas Malfoy was so desperate for Tom Riddle's friendship that he'd practically shoved his affianced into Tom's arms. Night after night, Abraxas had told Tullia to make herself pretty, to put on her expensive French perfume, and to go with Tom Riddle and make him happy so that one day the Malfoys would be in good favour, for Abraxas had known that Tom Riddle would be an important wizard. And Tullia had obliged, shy and timid though she was. She'd been polite, working to please the pompous Tom Riddle in his dormitory, not nearly as shameless as the other girls. She'd never moaned or shrieked or writhed. She'd treated it all like duty, like service. And Tom Riddle had soaked that in like the air he'd needed to breathe.

One time he'd returned Tullia to Abraxas out in the Common Room and said he'd had enough, that he'd tired of the girl but that he knew the Malfoys would always be good friends. Years later, after returning from the Continent, he'd come to Malfoy Manor and requested an office and a suite, and Abraxas had joyfully provided. Tullia Malfoy had graciously provided hospitality, pretending like Tom Riddle hadn't taken advantage of her at school. Suddenly Voldemort found himself staring at Tullia, feeling like an abominable cur in a way he hadn't felt in quite some time. He cleared his throat and said quietly,

"Tullia."

She turned her face and gave him a peaceful expression. There was a flash then in which Voldemort saw the Tullia Malfoy of the late 1970s, her face pockmarked by the Spattergroit she and Abraxas had survived. He could see her holding her grandson, Narcissa and Lucius' little boy, Draco, just before Voldemort had gone off meaning to kill Harry Potter. The pendulum swung, and he saw Tullia as a schoolgirl, her eyes wide with nerves but her voice quiet and calm as she asked Tom Riddle what he wanted her to do to make him happy. Then he was back in the garden, looking at the graceful, middle-aged Tullia, and he shook his head a little.

"It is, as always, Tullia, such a lovely party. You do put on such grand parties. Doesn't she, Bella?"

He glanced at Bellatrix, who smiled and nodded.

"Yes. Thank you again so much, Mrs Malfoy."

"It's a pleasure and an honour, my darling." Tullia seized Bellatrix's hand and squeezed it. "I have very high hopes that your sister shall marry my son, and they shall have babies of their own. And then you'll be the aunt of my grandchildren, eh? And, anyway, The Dark Lord's office is here, so the Manor will always be a home for you."

Voldemort flinched, but Bellatrix kept smiling. From beside Agnes Carrow, Fern Yaxley just looked on a bit awkwardly. Unlike the other witches, she'd not retained any of her girlish good looks. Indeed, she'd been pudgy and even a bit dough-faced as a Slytherin sixth-year, and at the time, Tom Riddle had imperiously thought himself far too handsome and charming to be habitually bedding a witch as unbecoming as the plump and homely Fern. So he'd taken her just a few times, rutting her from behind mechanically and grunting a few times to give her the impression he'd cared, and then he'd rather shoved her back at Yaxley and made a few joking comments about having had the first go at the witch who would wind up marrying the Pureblood boy.

Again, Voldemort felt shame wash over him, quite unexpectedly, for he knew now that Fern must have known in their youth that she'd only been dragged off and ravaged indifferently by the desirable and dapper and winsome Tom Marvolo Riddle because she was a witch of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, because her blood and her betrothed's blood were pure and clean and Tom wanted to clamour over them socially. She had to have known then that he'd been using her just like he'd been using all the other witches, but that he didn't find her attractive. She wasn't an idiot. In fact, Fern was very intelligent, so certainly she'd picked up on the fact that Tom had only ploughed her a few times in the dormitory, where most of the other girls got much more attention. And, though Voldemort deeply regretted the way he'd used all of the witches, every last one of them, for some reason it now felt like a wooden stake in his abdomen - the notion that he'd managed to both manipulate and devalue a quiet and bookish witch like Fern Yaxley.

He was confused, very suddenly. He'd never felt regret about what he'd done at Hogwarts with the young witches before. Not ever. Not even in the years he'd lived, when he'd known Bellatrix for well over a decade, had he ever felt compunction about having taken all those witches to bed. They'd been tools, and so had the wizards who would become their husbands. They'd been means to an end, machinery and accouterments to aid Lord Voldemort's eventual climb to power. Without the tactics he'd employed to cement his earliest claims to social capital and authority, he would not have been able to climb later.

That was true, wasn't it?

He glanced at all of the witches in the cluster, at Tullia Malfoy, at Agnes Carrow, and at Fern Yaxley. He thought of Iris Flint, whose daughter was now with Rodolphus Lestrange, the son of the witch to whom Tom Riddle had lost his virginity and started this whole misadventure. Rodolphus, whom Bellatrix had married in another time, whom Bellatrix would murder here to make her Horcrux…

"My Lord?"

He snapped to attention suddenly, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He glanced down to see Bellatrix staring up at him, touching at his elbow, looking very worried. Around her neck, her beautiful diamond star pendant glinted. Voldemort's mouth felt very dry as he heard himself say,

"You are wearing the pendant I gave you before our wedding. That pleases me."

"I wear it whenever I can, My Lord," Bellatrix hummed back, still touching at his elbow. "It is very precious to me."

She gave him quite a meaningful look then, and for some reason, his throat felt remarkably tight. He turned his face a little and felt oddly compelled to say,

"Agnes… you just heard Tullia go on and on about how much I love my wife, and indeed I do. But you must know that Aloysius loves you quite fiercely. He told me so, you know, when we were all seventeen years old. He told me that he loved you when he pulled me into the corner of the Slytherin Common Room and begged me, his eyes swimming, not to make a cuckold of him anymore. Because he loved you. And he still does. So. I do apologise for my barbarity toward your husband."

Agnes Carrow's mouth fell open in shock. Tullia Malfoy stared at Bellatrix to read her response, and Bellatrix just went straight and stiff beside Voldemort. Her grip on his elbow tightened almost painfully. But Voldemort had not finished. He needed to put this all to rest, right here and now.

"Fern." Voldemort said, very quietly and almost mournfully. He looked to Fern Yaxley, who gave him a look as though she were daring him to say something sensational. She looked like she was going to cry, all of a sudden, her round cheeks flushing red and her eyes visibly boiling over. She shrugged a little in expectation.

"Yes, Tom?"

"I…" He hesitated, thrown back for a moment to a time when he'd finished with Fern and had walked back out with her to the Common Room. Some of the other boys had wolf-whistled, and Fern had seemed utterly humiliated. Tom had made an off-colour joke to Yaxley about the bed breaking under Fern's weight. He shut his eyes, feeling so sick he thought for certain he would vomit. He shook his head. "Fern, the others were mistakes, I think, but you were the most egregious victim of all of it. I wouldn't blame you for wishing for someone to Obliviate you of it all. It's horrid. I was horrid. I shan't dare ask for forgiveness for it."

He opened his eyes to see tears flowing very freely down Fern's cheeks. She looked to Bellatrix, who stared up at Voldemort confusedly, very obviously unsure of what to do or say. She didn't even know what he was confessing, what he was apologising for, he knew. The other witches had some idea, at least. Voldemort gulped. He turned at last to Tullia and flashed her a forlorn little smile that he knew did not reach his dark eyes.

"And you. Tullia. You served me before you knew there was truly a Dark Lord to serve. Obedient almost to a fault, to the point, I am certain, of profound discomfort and extreme humiliation. You sacrificed yourself for Abraxas, and for me. For our ambition. You continue to do so. And so whilst I do apologise to you, I suppose I must also thank you. And I must also promise you to never forget your loyalty."

Tullia Malfoy tipped her chin up and glanced between Voldemort and Bellatrix. She smiled a little, her mouth twitching a bit as if the smile were faltering, and she said in a quivering voice,

"My Lord. Bellatrix… Abraxas and I will always be your most devoted friends and allies."

Voldemort nodded. "I know. Bella. Dance with me."

He plucked her wine out of her hands and nonverbally, wandlessly Vanished it into Non-Being. Bellatrix looked completely shocked as he seized her hand and led her away from the other witches. She walked with him out toward the parquet dance floor that Tullia had arranged, over which hovered a hundred floating little lanterns to illuminate the garden as night settled. A small jazz ensemble played classy, quiet music fit for foxtrots and similar dances, so when they reached the floor, Voldemort pulled Bellatrix into a stance and immediately began a neat little two-step. She swayed with him, her feet a bit clumsy until she found the rhythm. She stared up at him as if he had three heads, and finally, in a disrespectful snap he almost never heard from her, she demanded,

"What the blazes was that?"

Voldemort huffed. "I had some apologies to deliver."

Bellatrix scowled up at him and pursed her lips. She snarled then, again sounding most uncharacteristic. Even in the thirteen years he'd known her before, she'd never been as insolent as she was now. She lowered her voice and hissed at him,

"That was positively ridiculous! Groveling for those witches' forgiveness like they owe you anything! Are you the Dark Lord, or aren't you?"

"Yes, I am; are you my Death Eater, or aren't you?" Voldemort retorted down to her. Bellatrix raised a dark brow.

"No, not yet, Master."

"Hmph. I have every intention of fixing that on your birthday," he said smoothly, "as a gift."

"I'm not so certain I want such a gift after what I witnessed back there." Suddenly Bellatrix stopped dancing, sending a shiver of cold through Voldemort's blood. She stayed in the two-step stance with him and squeezed his hand roughly, but she glared up at him and insisted, "You debased yourself and you humiliated me."

"I humiliated them." Voldemort scoffed at her as though she were stupid. "Don't you understand? Night after night, I fucked those girls like they were whores in a brothel, like I'd paid real Galleons for it. But they weren't whores, Bella. They were Pureblood witches betrothed to Slytherin boys I wanted to subdue. I used sex to conquer my peers. In theory, it's a brilliant idea, no? The handsome Half-Blood, the most brilliant pupil Hogwarts has seen in centuries, shags all the girls in sight so their future husbands understand just who's in charge. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? But people got hurt, Bellatrix."

"Since when does Lord Voldemort care about people getting hurt?" Bellatrix spat, sounding almost disgusted. She recoiled from him, taking a step away from him and lowering her hands. "Who cares if you made fat old Fern feel unwanted, or if Aloysius Carrow felt like a cuckold? Wasn't that the entire point? What's the matter with you, My Lord? You've gone soft! I've seen memories of the life you lived; you screamed out Killing Curses as gleefully as I did."

His cheeks were on fire then, his chest pounding aggressively. He shrugged and said in a helpless voice,

"I can't explain it, Bella; I feel very differently about certain things this time round. Now that I've got you… as my wife, as my… you and I are in love here, properly, and I… I feel regret differently, for some reason, after traveling through time. I can't explain it. I'm sorry."

She gave him a very strange look, and then he noticed she was swaying on her feet. Her chestnut eyes looked a bit glazed, and he said with realisation,

"You're drunk."

"Tipsy," she admitted. "Nearly four goblets of German Elf-Made Eiswein. Tastes better when you won't get a nasty owl from the Ministry for drinking it."

"Hm. Well. I will not be chastising you over your consumption of Eiswein at your own birthday party. You look stunningly beautiful. I hope you know."

She did not respond. She just stared, her curls blowing a little in a breeze that swept through the Malfoys' gardens and made the many decorative floral arrangements shiver. Voldemort sighed and shrugged.

"I love you," he told her, "and tomorrow I hope, with all my heart, to make you the first of my Death Eaters in this time. It would be quite significant to me, you understand, if you led the way."

"Yes, Master," Bellatrix said, her voice numb and distant. She turned her head to look away from him. "You must have whatever you want."

He was unsure of what to do or say then, so he just started to walk away from her. But as he did, Bellatrix called,

"My Lord?"

He whirled around, and Bellatrix gave him a rather hard look.

"The Squibs are getting restless, the Prophet said today."

Voldemort pinched his lips. "Yes. They are."

She tipped her head. "When you and I were just getting to know one another, you told me you'd let me fight if they rebelled and you launched an attack on them, but that I would be at school, so I would be unavailable. But now I shan't be at school. You know the history, don't you, My Lord? Will there be lawlessness from the Squibs any time soon?"

He didn't answer for a moment, until finally he nodded and conceded, "Mid-October, by my memory."

"And you set your friends on them," Bellatrix confirmed. Voldemort allowed,

"There have already been preliminary discussions… setting the stage."

"And I will be allowed to fight the Squibs, now that I've left Hogwarts for good?" Bellatrix raised her eyebrows expectantly. Voldemort studied the way her new black chiffon dress fit her, the way her flat satin dress shoes encased her feet, the way her diamond star pendant glittered. He met her eyes again and took a step toward her.

"I've already told you. I refuse to lose you, to death or to Azkaban. You are, unfortunately, my only little fighter who stands under five feet tall, has a nipped-in little waist, and explosive black ringlets. It's all a bit of a dead giveaway. They'd sic the Hit Wizards and the Aurors on you at once. I won't have you dragged off into custody any more than I'll have you taken out by a Killing Curse. So, no, Bellatrix, you won't be in combat. Not until my movement grows much larger and stronger. I'm sorry; my word is final. When things are in a position for you to become a real soldier, then -"

"Well, when will that be?" Bellatrix lashed out then, stamping her foot. Voldemort surged through with anger and somewhat bellowed at her,

"Don't you dare interrupt me ever again, Bellatrix Lestrange! You are my slave before all else; you will remember that or you will die. You will fight when I command you to fight. Do you understand me or not?"

She had shrunken back a bit, horrified by what he'd roared at her, and the way he'd yelled so loudly and aggressively in front of everyone, and as she hugged herself and bowed her head, Voldemort realised the band had gone quiet and most of the party guests had stopped their conversations. Bellatrix murmured helplessly,

"Bellatrix Lestrange. You called me Bellatrix Lestrange, Master."

"I… oh." He shut his eyes and heard the sound of pattering footsteps on the parquet floor, and then Druella Black was shushing her daughter's soft hyperventilating and insisting the band keep playing music. Druella called out to everyone that all was well and to carry on with their drinks and desserts. Voldemort opened his eyes to see Druella standing before him, alone; Bellatrix had dashed off and appeared to be talking alone with her father.

"I have no idea what the matter is with you, Tom Riddle," Druella said in a disgusted sneer, "but suffice it to say an egregious mistake appears to have been made by the Black family. I ought to have known. I've seen straight through you for decades. You have never been anything but a wishful tyrant who terrorises everyone in his path to try and achieve power."

"Druella, I've had too much to drink," Voldemort lied, "and I… I wasn't thinking clearly. I just -"

Druella laughed bitterly. "I once thought your worst offences were imposing yourself on spaces in which you didn't belong and attempting to become part of a community where you simply had no place. But it is so much worse than that, Tom Riddle. You are a villain in a story where you have spent a very long time convincing yourself you were the hero. Or perhaps that is naive of me. Perhaps you never cared at all whether you were the villain or the hero, because those roles are defined by your relationship with others. But Tom Riddle never cared one lick about anyone else. No, not even about Bellatrix Black. To you, I think, Tom Riddle himself is the only character in the story."

"Druella," Voldemort choked out, shaking his head, "I ought not to have shouted at her. It was a mistake."

Druella scoffed. "A mistake? You threatened her life. You called her a slave; you called her Bellatrix Lestrange. A mistake."

Druella shoved her goblet of wine into Voldemort's hands for some reason then, and as he took it, he stared down at the blood-red liquid and scowled. He looked up and saw Druella looking hurt and angry as she said primly,

"Go home, Tom, and let me try to pick up the shattered pieces of my daughter's heart. You're dismissed."

Author's Note: Whew! Voldemort done messed up in so many ways! How will this get fixed?! (I promise it will get fixed.)

The Bad News: Those of you who have followed my writing for years know I took an extended hiatus in large part because of severe health problems. Well, lucky me - I had a Sudden Cardiac Arrest just in time for Christmas (my heart stopped beating for 42 seconds according to my implanted loop recorder!)

The Good News: I am now on extended bed rest and will have lots of time to write, and I intend on taking advantage of that time. So you can expect more regular updates coming up as I rest up.

I certainly would be grateful for feedback. Thank you and I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday season.