Lord Voldemort cracked open his eyes, feeling like he'd slept for a veritable eternity. He groaned a bit as he rolled over, his hands groping, feeling for Bellatrix. He tried to pull her close to him, to draw her up against him. He was hungry for her, just as he'd been hungry for her the night before. He'd rocked into her body for a luxuriously long while before spilling himself and kissing the skin beneath her ear, hearing her murmur into the darkness of the room that she loved him like mad before she dozed off. He'd fallen asleep nude, with her tangled up in his embrace, as they'd done so often since getting married. He'd dreamed of their wedding, of seeing her in her shimmering black bridal gown. He'd dreamed of kissing her outside Praelia House on the lawn in the rain one afternoon beneath the great oak tree on the grassy expanse, her curls tangled round his fingers.
And then he'd awakened, thinking that it must be late owing to the warmth in the bedroom and the searingly bright light streaming through the windows. He blinked again and looked beside him, for his hands were failing to find Bellatrix. But she wasn't there; the bed was empty. And then Voldemort realised something else, with a shock of utter horror.
This wasn't the right bed.
This was the bed with chocolate brown sheets and a stout mahogany frame, the bed inside a room with elegant masculine wood paneling, where he'd slept for years in a life he'd left behind. This was his bed in his manor home outside Danby in North Yorkshire, the palatial escape he'd made for himself the first time he'd lived through the rise of Lord Voldemort.
He panicked, heaving himself from the bed and dashing from the bedroom. The bathroom here was not en suite; it was just down the corridor. It was an enormous bathroom, though, lavish and opulent with a brass and cast iron French bateau bathtub and a sink with brass fixtures in the shape of a swan. Voldemort hurried across the white marble floor and arranged himself in front of the octagonal mirror, staring at his reflection. His mouth fell open in incredulity; his mind rejected the reality before him as though it simply could not be.
His eyes burned badly at once, and his throat went tight. He knew, instantly, what this meant. He touched at his aged cheek, run through with the wretched scar he'd earned at the infamous battle in Cornwall. He brushed his fingertips over the mostly blind, cloudy eye that seemed like it had been punched in. His touch hovered over his greying whiskers, around his retreating hairline, and his lip quivered. Yes, he knew what all of his meant. It meant that he had come forward again, that he was old again. And what that meant was that Bellatrix was not his. She was not his wife here. His little holiday to the past, his little adventure where he'd been able to win Bellatrix for his own, to love her and hold her, to embrace her and steal her away from Rodolphus, had all just been
His stomach lurched, and he reached at once for the toilet. He clutched at the sides of the seat, feeling so nauseated he was certain he'd vomit. He retched just a little but managed to compose himself, and he finally stood upright and made his back straight. He shook his head just a little, squared his jaw, and whispered aloud,
"What a cruel folly it all was."
Voldemort stalked into the Malfoy Manor dining room to see that the table was already full of Death Eaters. His elegant black wool robes, neatly tailored by the movement's own Thabo Shacklebolt, brushed the wooden floorboards as he neared the table. His eyes, the right one seeing vividly and the left one clouding up his vision a bit, scanned over his followers. They were older here, the way he'd left them before he'd gone back and married Bellatrix.
Augustus Rookwood had lost all of his hair but had a grey beard and wrinkles around his eyes. The Carrow twins looked sour, but both resembled their mother Agnes. Lucius Malfoy, young and far too eager, sat beside Abraxas, who was scarred up from the Spattergroit he'd survived a few years earlier. Both had their icy blond hair tied back in matching queues and wore the most evidently expensive robes in the room. Rabastan Lestrange looked almost bored, rolling his wand on the table and sitting in an impudent sort of posture. Voldemort's gaze then settled on Rodolphus Lestrange, who was massive and hulking at thirty years of age, his rectangular face looking like he was itching for a fight. His dark eyes were dim, and his lips pouted like a child's, but he looked like he could physically defeat anyone who challenged him, even if he wasn't the sharpest with a wand.
And then there was Bellatrix.
Somehow, she was even more beautiful here, at thirty years of age, than at barely seventeen, the way Voldemort had been made to leave her as his wife. His eyes smarted and stung again, and he blinked back the sensation as he realised she was wearing the star pendant he'd given her at her birthday party years earlier. She had it on over a black lace frock, with her curls tied up atop her head, tendrils falling around her elegant face. She wore dark makeup, and she stared up at Voldemort and smiled just a little bit at him.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak to her. He tried to tell her that he'd awakened here without her, having fallen asleep naked with her, that she'd been his wife, that they'd been in love. He tried to tell her that they'd made vows, that he'd made her an engagement ring with a salt and pepper diamond. He tried to tell her about Praelia House. He tried to tell her that she was meant to be killing Rodolphus to make herself a Horcrux, so that Voldemort would never lose her. But he couldn't tell her any of those things. He could say nothing at all. Instead, he just went to his seat at the head of the table and sat down, folding his hands on the enormous, shiny table and looking out upon his assembled Death Eaters.
"I have killed James, Lily, and Harry Potter," he said simply, for this morning he verified that the Killing Curse had never Rebounded. In this time, in this place he'd come back to, he'd succeeded in his mission and had gone back to Danby and gone to sleep after drinking Firewhisky. He shrugged a little as Bellatrix clapped her hands excitedly and the others murmured to one another. "A dire threat to our movement has been eliminated. Now we move onward and upward. We target the greater threat, which is, of course, Albus Dumbledore. We focus our efforts on overrunning the Daily Prophet and the Ministry, on controlling Hogwarts. I grow weary of endless skirmishes at enemies' cottages, of exchanging Curses on moors and of trading spellfire in rainy forests. Rookwood!"
Augustus Rookwood jolted and nodded frenetically. Voldemort tipped his head. "I want you to make serious progress on infiltrating every single department of the Ministry. Within the next month, I want a loyalist to our movement at the top level of each Ministry department. Do whatever it takes. Imperius Curses. Bribery. Threats. Killing family members. It's all means to an end. Get me the Ministry, Rookwood. Am I understood?"
"Y-yes, My Lord," Rookwood stammered. Voldemort nodded slowly. He sniffed a little and turned his eyes to the man who had been his father-in-law.
"Cygnus," Voldemort said in a slick tone, and Bellatrix's father sat up straight. Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "The Potters had enormous wealth, owing to James' inheritance from his father Fleamont, who, as we all know, was the inventor of Sleekeazy's. That fortune is mine now, obviously. I want you to take care of that matter at Gringott's within the next few hours, before anyone else manages to get their hands on the Potters' gold."
"With your leave, My Lord, I shall go at once," Cygnus said cautiously. "If I'm honest, I don't trust the goblins as soon as this news spreads, much less any relatives of the family. I think it best if I go make the appropriate transfers before anyone else can do so."
"Yes. Go." Voldemort waved his hand. Cygnus pushed his chair back and stood, giving a respectful bow to Voldemort and rushing out of the dining room with his wand in his hand. Voldemort pinched his lips and turned his attention to Bellatrix. He studied her hair, the way she had it tied up, the way her skin was milky and perfect. She was mature here, the way he remembered her looking when he'd had Spanish Rioja with her just before he'd gone off to kill Harry Potter. When he'd married her, she'd been little more than a girl. She'd been painfully pretty in her youth, but here, as a woman who had fully blossomed, she was strikingly, arrestingly beautiful. Voldemort gulped.
"Orlo Flint," he choked out, clearing his throat a bit to clarify his voice. Silvester Flint's boy snapped to attention and gave a respectful dip of his head. Voldemort's mind whirled suddenly, thinking of seeing young Orlo in social settings when Voldemort been romantically linked to a teenage Bellatrix. Voldemort thought of Iris Greengrass Flint, one of the Slytherin girls he'd shagged in his diabolical scheme in the dormitories. He thought of Josephine Flint, the daughter Silvester and Iris had had, who had dated Rodolphus once Bellatrix had married Voldemort. The entire tangled mess, most of which was untrue in this time, swirled inside Voldemort's head, and he huffed a breath as he met Orlo Flint's eyes.
"I want relentless coverage of the Potters' death in the Daily Prophet, with the tone of the articles entirely sympathetic to me. I am not to be named as their killer, of course. All coverage is to focus on how the Potters betrayed their good friend, Peter Pettigrew, who, it will be noted, will disappear from the public. I want the Potters made out to be the villains in this story. Destroy public sympathy for them. This entire assassination needs to work for me and against Dumbledore somehow. You're the writer. Make it work."
"Of course, Master," said young Orlo, whose sharp face looked anxious. Voldemort sighed and told everyone in a weary voice,
"James and Lily Potter had been thorns in my side for years. But their son, the boy Harry Potter, posed a far more egregious threat. That child needed to be eliminated, and he needed to be eliminated by me. It is done now. I wish to take a few days to rest my mind from it all. Write to me if necessary. Otherwise, do not bother me. Dismissed."
He waited for the Death Eaters around the table who had gathered at his summons to rise, their chairs scraping on the wooden floor and their voices murmuring softly to one another. Voldemort stayed seated, staring at Bellatrix, who was conversing quietly with Rodolphus Lestrange. He felt queasy and dizzy as he saw her with her husband, knowing that here she'd been Rodolphus' wife, and before that his girlfriend, for a very long time. He licked his lips and said carefully,
"Bellatrix. My office, if you please."
She snapped her face to him and curtsied. "Of course, Master."
She flashed an apologetic sort of look to Rodolphus and then scurried out of the meeting. Voldemort rose and walked out, watching as Bellatrix hurried past Yaxley, who was just behind Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy. Her black lace dress swished around her little legs, and he could see that she had on flat-heeled dragonhide boots. He put his lips into a line and followed her down the corridor, nodding to Silvester Flint and Rabastan Lestrange as he passed them. He reached his office and pushed open the door to find that Bellatrix had let herself in.
Only in the past year had she begun to do that, with Voldemort's explicit permission. She was the only Death Eater he would ever allow to do such a thing. She was waiting for him in the centre of the stately, dark room, and she stared at him, dipping respectfully into another curtsy like she'd done in the meeting.
"My Lord," she hummed. Then she said softly, "Congratulations on killing the Potters… the wretched boy most especially. You must be so very pleased."
"Indeed," Voldemort said. His voice was calm, but his heart hammered loudly. His left hand was empty now. He remembered vividly the feel of a young Bellatrix pushing his wedding ring onto his finger, the sight of her staring up at him as he hovered over her and pushed into her nubile body for the first time. He chewed his lip and shrugged. "It is progress, and it was necessary. The fight continues. I shall not sleep a full night's rest until I've got Dumbledore's wand."
"My Lord knows how badly I wish to help you kill him," Bellatrix purred. She lowered her dark eyes and twined her hands together before her. "I want it more than anything… I know it would help your ascent, Master, to see that pathetic old beast slain."
Voldemort took a few steps toward Bellatrix, his pulse accelerating and his throat going so tight he could hardly speak. "You would do it, too, wouldn't you?" he asked. "You would kill him yourself for me, if you could. You would torture that man until he was a babbling disaster, and then you would moan your Killing Curse and feel ecstasy at the sensation of destroying Dumbledore. Wouldn't you?"
Bellatrix's mouth fell open. She just nodded, looking numb and seeming unable to speak. She was so beautiful then that Voldemort could not help himself. He closed the gap between them, reaching for Bellatrix's face and cupping her jaw in his hand, feeling her skin beneath his touch and feeling her melt against him. He gazed into her enormous eyes and whispered,
"All these years, you have cherished committing atrocities for me, haven't you, Bella?"
She nodded again, silently, wordless in what seemed like utter shock. She was spellbound by Lord Voldemort's unique brand of magic, apparently. He held her gaze and leaned nearer to her, and he informed her gently,
"I am glad of that, Bella, because you know… you are not just my greatest soldier. You are not just my greatest weapon, my closest ally. Hm? You are much more than that."
Bellatrix's full lip trembled, and she let out a breath that shook like an autumn leaf. She choked out, "I am, Master?"
He bent down and put his mouth beside her ear, and he murmured just audibly enough for her to hear him,
"You are incredibly precious to me. The most precious thing of all."
He brushed his lips over the skin beneath her ear and felt her shiver, and then he heard her whisper frantically,
"Oh, My Lord…"
"Bella," he said onto her skin. Before he knew what was happening, he was pushing her toward his desk, and she was stumbling backward, her arms flinging up and wrapping around his neck for purchase. She was holding him, he realised, and her fingers actually danced around the back of his neck and head. When they reached the desk, she slid up onto it to sit, and then Voldemort moved his mouth off of her neck.
He crushed her mouth with hers before he thought of what to do. He ought to have asked, he knew. He ought to have gone much, much more slowly. She was married. She was not his teenage wife here. He was older, scarred, worn down by war and battle. He'd never told her the truth here, not really. They'd never actually been together that she would remember, much less lived together in their own house. But here he was, pushing his tongue between her lips. And then she shocked him, because she not only received him, but she kissed him back eagerly, and she moaned.
She nibbled at his bottom lip and coursed her tongue over his, lathing her own tongue over the roof of his mouth and eliciting a chesty groan. She whimpered as her little fingers flew to his scarred face and searched aimlessly. Voldemort's own hands burrowed into her curls, which felt familiar after months of touching her in the years where he'd been much closer to her. For a very long while, he kissed her until his mouth felt bruised, and then at last she pulled back a little and huffed,
"Master, I… I thought perhaps I'd imagined…"
"My beautiful Bella," Voldemort whispered simply, holding her face in his hands. He kissed her lips very gently then, just brushing his mouth onto hers and letting their warm breath mingle. "Bella. My Bella."
"Master." Her mouth pressed onto his again, and suddenly she seemed restless and hungry. Her hands flew to his chest, her thin little fingers convulsing around the black wool of his robes. Voldemort pulled back a little and studied her face. Her full lips were swollen and shining, just like they'd been in her youth whenever Voldemort had kissed her silly. Her doe eyes, the familiar chestnut Voldemort had known for many years now, searched him desperately. Her high cheeks were flushed pink, and some of her hair had fallen loose. Voldemort tried to tell her the truth, to tell her they'd been married, that he'd fallen asleep naked with her in Praelia House when she'd been freshly seventeen and had awakened outside Danby. But he just shook his head a little and mumbled,
"Bellatrix, I… for years now, I have denied myself the satisfaction of telling you the truth, and I will deny myself no longer. I need you to know. I… it's…"
Bellatrix's eyes welled heavily, red-rimmed and still frantically searching. Tears boiled over and wormed their way down Bellatrix's cheeks as she waited for Voldemort to speak. He thought of seeing her in white marrying Rodolphus, of how badly that had hurt him. He thought of marrying her himself, slipping her wedding ring onto her finger and promising himself to her in the Ancient Tongue. Now he reached for her hand and dragged his thumb over her rings, over her engagement ring and her wedding ring, the ones Rodolphus Lestrange had put on her hand years earlier. She nodded, seeming to note that he remembered. She didn't know, of course, that Voldemort didn't actually remember himself, that he'd been shown the memory of kissing her in Malfoy Manor by a young Bellatrix, who had been shown the vision in a dream. It was all quite twisted and tangled. But she whispered softly,
"It was years ago, My Lord. After the battle in Cornwall where you got so injured. You sent for me; you told Dolph to send me. And then you called me your beautiful creature, and you told me I was precious to you. You… you kissed me, and I… I thought it was just the Anodyne Draught. I -"
"I meant it." Voldemort spoke almost too sharply for his own ear then. He reached with his left hand and brushed his fingers over the diamond star pendant she wore around her neck. He sniffed lightly and said, "The star Bellatrix is much larger and hotter than our Sun. It is also much younger. Bellatrix, of course is the term for a female warrior, as is the term Praelia. When I danced with you the Christmas after I gave you this necklace, I wanted nothing more in all the world, Bella, than to tell you what I knew very much by then to be true. What I still know to be true, years later."
He raised his eyes to hers. She was still crying, silently and calmly. She just nodded a little, and he tipped his head as he informed her,
"I am very desperately in love with you."
Her knees seemed to buckle a little then. She choked out a little sob of disbelief, and she leaned forward as her head touched Voldemort's chest. On instinct, he wrapped her up in his arms and embraced her, holding her tightly against him. He breathed her in, smelling her perfume of vanilla and smoky oud. Suddenly he could hardly contain his own emotion, for it felt like she'd died, in a way. He'd had her; she'd been his wife. Here she was his most loyal soldier, a ferocious combat veteran. Here he had successfully killed Harry Potter. But she was Rodolphus' wife here. Wasn't it all just a fever dream of sorts, that time he'd spent in the past? He had no way of going back there. He had no way of recapturing that torturously sweet phantasm. His little Bellatrix was gone. Wasn't she?
"My Lord," Bellatrix gasped, and she reached up to hold his face. She stared up at him and shook her head a bit wildly. "You know. You must know."
"Know what?" He was struggling to speak then. He felt her fingers cinch on her face. She cried harder than ever as she managed,
"I have loved you for ages, My Lord, so madly that at times I thought I'd lost my mind entirely."
Voldemort's breath hitched. He was not entirely certain what to say then. He wanted to tell her about his Horcruxes, about how she'd agreed as a teenager to murder Rodolphus and make herself a Horcrux. He wanted to tell her about Freya Travers, about how in that other time, his son Thomas had died in a freak accident. He wanted to tell her about his tumultuous relationship with Druella Black, about him killing her cousin Sirius as a boy. He wanted to tell her about it all. But he couldn't find any of the words. So instead he pulled back from her and staggered over to his drinks cart, and he mumbled a bit frantically,
"Let's have some firewhisky."
"Thank you." Bellatrix's voice was meek then, just above a whisper. Voldemort's hands shook wildly as he opened his crystal bottle of Blishen's and poured out a few fingers of whisky in two tumblers. He brought one over to Bellatrix and watched her sip without wincing. She'd had years of practise drinking the stuff here. He studied her face, beautiful but still just young enough, and he asked tentatively,
"How ferociously do you love your husband?"
She hesitated, licking her lips. She shook her head a little and smirked. "Rodolphus is… erm. He is loyal to you, My Lord. He fights decently well. He's middling. He irritates me, sometimes, with how slowly he responds to a Curse in combat. I think it is reflective of his overarching intelligence, which I confess to be less than satisfactory."
"I did not ask if the man was stupid; I asked how much you love him," Voldemort snapped. He sipped his drink. Bellatrix just stared at him. She finally admitted,
"I don't love him, My Lord. To keep things peaceful, I give him what he wants."
"What he wants," Voldemort repeated, feeling disgusted. He narrowed his eyes and set his tumbler of whisky down on his desk. He folded his arms over his black wool robes and glared at Bellatrix. "You are my absolute best Death Eater. You're much too brilliant and lovely to be with a dimwitted dolt like Rodolphus Lestrange, don't you think?"
"It's a bit late now, with all due respect, Master," Bellatrix scoffed. "It's been -"
"Twelve years," Voldemort snarled through clenched teeth. "Yes. I'm aware. I was at the damned wedding. I had to stand there and watch you walk up that aisle in that absurd white dress. I know you didn't want to wear it. You would have much preferred to get married in a black gown, hmm?"
Bellatrix flinched but nodded. Voldemort felt his eyes sear, thinking of his wedding to her in the past that was gone now, a time that felt like it had just been a wild hallucination. He scowled.
"Before I went to kill the Potters, you and I discussed our next mission over quite a lot of Spanish Rioja," Voldemort noted. Bellatrix nodded. Voldemort shrugged. "Eliza Atlas. One of Dumbledore's oldest and most loyal allies. We know she's been sheltering members of the Order of the Phoenix. We know her home has been serving as a safe house. We've finally tracked her down. You know the plan you and I developed before I went to Godric's Hollow, Bella."
She sipped her whisky and nodded. "We go in silently in the dead of night and besiege the house. Fire. Blasting Curses. Lure them out into battle and destroy them. We're expecting at least five or six of them there. We know we won't escape that fight without casualties. It will be brutal."
Voldemort squared his jaw and sighed. "And you'll fight like hell for me, won't you, Bellatrix? Hm? You'll scream bloody murder, casting Killing Curses through the night, velveteen emerald spells that whip out your death upon my enemies. Won't you?"
"Of course I will, Master." Bellatrix bowed her head. "I will fight for you as I always do, with absolute dedication and with all the courage I possess."
"And you will follow whatever orders I give you, won't you?" Voldemort's voice was a bit harsh now. Bellatrix flicked her wide eyes up to him curiously but said nothing. He tipped his head and prompted her, "I am your master. Many years ago, I put the Dark Mark upon you and made you mine. Didn't I? You serve me most devotedly. And I've told you here, today, that I've loved you for years. And you have confessed that it is mutual. So you will do as I command you, won't you? In the heat of that battle, when Killing Curses are soaring chaotically through the night air outside Eliza Atlas' house, and we expect casualties, you will do precisely as I command you."
Bellatrix's face shifted as awareness settled on her countenance. She straightened her back and tipped up her chin.
"Give me the order, Master, and your will shall be done."
Voldemort's heart raced. He unfolded his arms from his chest and took a half step toward Bellatrix. He touched at her little waist in her black lace dress and sucked in air hard through his nostrils, leaning in to kiss her. He let their breath mix for a moment before he hummed onto her lips,
"You said that you do not love him."
"I don't love him," Bellatrix replied. Her palms went flat onto Voldemort's chest. His throat hitched a little, and he planted a kiss on her lips before he reminded her,
"You said that you loved me. That you… that you'd loved me for a good long while."
"I have loved you, Master," Bellatrix said desperately, "since I was just a silly little girl who scarcely knew how killing felt. And when you kissed me, and you called me your beautiful creature, and you said my Bella, and I thought it was just the Anodyne Draught, and then you didn't remember… my heart shattered. For years, I was broken-hearted."
"Do not be broken-hearted," Voldemort said. "I command you not to be broken-hearted. I love you far too much for you to feel wretched at my expense."
"I love you, Master," Bellatrix insisted, and he kissed her hard, feeling her tongue push between his lips. He took a long moment to savour her, to let his own tongue twine with hers in a pavane, to suckle on her lip and to stroke gently at her jaw. When at last the kiss broke apart, he said to her,
"Kill him. When the battle becomes chaos, when it won't be clear whose spell it was, I want you to kill Rodolphus. And then I want you to be mine."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, to study her face. He examined her for any trace of fear, or of disobedient aversion to what he'd said. But her face was steely and solemn. She nodded, and his stomach clenched as his blood raced in his veins. She was truly wicked, he thought, and she did relish committing atrocities. And the teenage wife was gone; the brief and bizarre phantasmagoria Lord Voldemort had been granted with her younger self had dissolved like salt in water. He had come back to his own time, but he had kissed her, and she loved him. And Harry Potter was dead, and soon enough, so too would be Albus Dumbledore.
And Bellatrix would be his in the world where he belonged.
Author's Note: I am really very sorry for the extremely extended absence from updating. Unfortunately, the cardiac arrest I had on Christmas Eve had some complications involved, so I was medically unable to write for awhile. I am grateful for your understanding and ongoing readership. I do promise to write and update as often as I possibly can! I have some great plans for the rest of this story, which as you can tell will wind up being of a pretty decent length when all is said and done. Any feedback you're willing to provide is most appreciated.