Lord Voldemort sat hunched over his stout walnut writing desk in one of Praelia House's parlours. He had his pale yew wand aimed at the glittering necklace on the desk, and he was muttering spell after spell, shaping the metal, forming the diamonds into position. He sighed and tipped his head, examining what he'd done. He pursed his lips and thought back to when he'd first done this for Bellatrix, years earlier in his lived existence. The star diamond pendant he'd made her then had been slightly more delicate and smaller, but had been created to honour her namesake. This necklace served the same purpose, but he meant for this version to be more elaborate, more ornate and impressive. She wouldn't know the difference, of course; she had no knowledge or memory of the first time he'd give her this gift.

Romy, Voldemort's House-Elf here at Praelia House, came skittering into the parlour and twined her bony fingers together somewhat anxiously as she questioned,

"Can Romy fetch refreshment for the Master? Tea? Lemonade, perhaps? A biscuit?"

"No. I'm fine," Voldemort muttered. "I've nearly finished with this, and then I'm taking it to Bellatrix."

"Oh!" Romy's little face illuminated with glee. "Kindly send Romy's regards to the Mistress, won't you, Master? Romy does so look forward to the wedding in a few days' time, so that thereafter Romy may serve Mistress Bellatrix here at Praelia House forever. Mistress Bellatrix is most lovely."

"So she is," Voldemort nodded. He turned back to his work, and Romy seemed to get the message as she danced out of the parlour. Voldemort huffed a breath and studied the necklace again. He imagined it rount Bellatrix's neck in just a few days at their wedding. She'd be clad in black, he knew, not in horrid white like she'd been in his other life, when she'd married Rodolphus Lestrange. And here, she was young all over again. She was only sixteen, though in reality Voldemort was an old man. He felt odd about that, and about how here he'd know this version of her for so short a time. But he'd loved her, the her he'd left behind, for thirteen years, so he'd jumped at any chance to make her his own.

"Gemma Coruscatio," Voldemort incanted, and the diamonds in the complicated star pattern he'd created began to glisten and shimmer almost violently. He reached with slightly quivering fingers and picked up the necklace, thinking of Bellatrix, of the witch with whom he'd had Spanish Rioja just before he'd been hurtled back here, of the young version of her he'd found once he'd come. He was to marry her, this new and forgotten form of her. She would be his, at last and in a way that would forge new memories entirely. Voldemort kissed the pendant and shut his eyes, and he rose from his chair.

Bellatrix gasped where she lay, jolting awake so suddenly that she felt like she'd been angrily shaken from sleep. She sat straight upright, her heart pounding and her breath coming in rapid pants through her nostrils. She scowled, confused. What had she dreamed? What on Earth had that been? She looked down to see that the bed beside her was empty; Lord Voldemort was gone. She was alone in his heavy, masculine bed, and she realised she'd passed the night with him in his manor home outside Danby in North Yorkshire.

She'd murdered Albus Dumbledore, she knew. She'd accomplished the greatest feat Voldemort could have ever asked of her as his soldier. And she'd killed her cousin Sirius, and other enemies were dead. It had been, almost without question, the greatest victory of the war. They'd come back to Lord Voldemort's house, and they'd celebrated with kisses and with sex, and he'd held her and told her how ferociously he loved her. He'd told her he wanted her as a consort, that he needed her beside him. But now he was gone from the bed, and Bellatrix had awakened from a very odd dream, one in which she'd seen him in some strange reality where he'd apparently remembered this existence but had been preparing to marry her teenage self, where he'd been making a replica of the star pendant he'd given her a few years earlier.

Bellatrix pulled herself from Voldemort's bed and left the blankets rumpled, unable to care right now about making the bed as she padded across the bedroom and past the lit fireplace. She was wearing one of Voldemort's long tunics, which he'd given her after her bath the night before. She'd fallen asleep tangled in his arms, and now she had no idea where he was. She emerged from his bedroom and curiously went out and down the upstairs corridor of the manor house, looking about and feeling a strange chill go up her spine. The house was eerie and silent. Bellatrix walked barefoot down the winding staircase, calling out for the House-Elf, Fan.

"Hello, Miss Bellatrix." Fan appeared at once, careening from a side parlour and looking a bit concerned. He frowned, seeming almost frightened, and said, "Fan's master has gone to Malfoy Manor, to his office. He said it was urgent, that it could not wait a moment. He said to tell you to go Malfoy Manor, to change clothes, and to meet him in his office, miss."

Bellatrix's mouth fell open. "When did he leave? How long has he been gone?"

"Around an hour or so, miss," Fan conceded. Bellatrix seethed, feeling profoundly anxious. She just nodded and dashed upstairs, rushing to put on her clothes from the battle the night before. She did her very best to deodorise them, to Scour the dirt from them, to repair the tears in the fabric. But they were beyond hope and needed replacement, it seemed. She growled with frustration and yanked her curls into a braid, which she bound with a Conjured leather tie. She cleaned her teeth and perfumed her body with a few quick spells, slid on her boots, and hurried out of Voldemort's bedroom again, leaving the bed for the House-Elf to make.

When she arrived outside Malfoy Manor via Apparition, she could sense extra wards around the place, which made her more uneasy than ever. She shivered as she walked through the barriers of protection that she could tell had been enchanted to only admit certain allies. She approached the manor's gate and shoved her way through with magic, trotting up to the great house as though her soul were informing her there was no time to lose. She yanked the grand front door open and sprinted up the foyer stairs, past Dobby the House-Elf, who called out to her that her sister Narcissa was looking for her.

"I'll find her," Bellatrix yelled back. She ran down the corridor and up the staircase at the end of the hall, passing portraits that were murmuring to one another. Gossip in Malfoy Manor among the paintings of long-dead Malfoys was never a good thing, Bellatrix had learnt long ago. Her stomach quivered with fear as she yanked open the door to her suite, the rooms where she'd been staying ever since the Dark Lord had executed Rodolphus. She went straight for her wardrobe and flung it open, grabbing the first dress she could get her hands on, which was a long black dress with flowing, pleated skirts, a high waist, and sheer, billowy sleeves. It was elegant and probably too formal for the occasion, but it was the first thing Bellatrix snatched. She practically ripped off her battle attire from the night before and dragged the black dress on over her head, doing up the buttons along the side of the torso. She kept on her flat dragonhide boots and realised she was still confidently holding the wand she'd seized from Dumbledore when she'd Disarmed him, as though it were her own wand now. It did feel strangely appropriate in her grip. It felt like it had chosen her as a girl in Ollivander's. Bellatrix had no time to think more on it now. She felt curls falling from her messy braid, tendrils messily kissing her cheeks, but she had no time to fix that, either. She just rushed from her suite and shut her door behind her, and she went down the staircase, heading for Voldemort's office. But as she passed the parlour where Abraxas Malfoy kept his treasured ancestral Wizard's Chess set and his expensive grand piano, she heard a tearful voice call out,

"Oh! Bellatrix. Dear. There you are. Will you come in here?"

"Mrs Malfoy?" Bellatrix skidded to a stop and turned sharply to her left, walking briskly into the room. She looked around then, surprised to see a small gathering. Abraxas Malfoy looked haggard, wearing plain woolen robes that were practically peasant's attire by Malfoy standards. Tullia Malfoy, too, looked wan and wearied. Bellatrix was accustomed to seeing her clad in the finest silks and velvets, adorned with jewels, her hair neatly styled. But right now, she had on a draping set of dour forest green robes, her greying blonde hair pulled into a simple, somewhat messy knot. She wore no visible makeup and no jewels at all. Lord Voldemort was the third person in the room, and he glared seriously at Bellatrix from where he stood gripping his wand tightly in his crossed arms. He'd come to Malfoy Manor, strangely enough, in a fresh set of battle attire. He had put on clean, black breeches and dragonhide boots, a neat black tunic with silver buttons in a diagonal down the front, and he'd shucked on a dignified but practical black frock coat.

Bellatrix's stomach sank. Where was Narcissa? Where was Lucius? She remembered the strange dream from which she'd awakened, where she'd seen Voldemort making her a star diamond necklace before marrying her teenage self, where he'd apparently known this version of her in her own past. She huffed a breath and looked around the Malfoys' parlour and asked in a shaking voice,

"What's going on, My Lord?"

"As you know, Lucius Malfoy took a Concussion Curse during the battle last night," Voldemort said, his voice quiet but angry. "It was, we believe, Arthur Weasley who hit him with the Concussion Curse. Weasley was killed in the battle. Abraxas brought Lucius back to Malfoy Manor, since Lucius couldn't be quickly roused and was in danger of being taken out."

"Yes," Bellatrix nodded numbly. "I… I saw them go. I saw Lucius on the ground; I saw Mr Malfoy Disapparate with him."

"When I brought Lucius back here," Abraxas Malfoy said, sounding hoarse and sapped, "Tullia and Narcissa helped me make him comfortable in bed. We gave him Wiggenweld Potion. It's the best-known treatment for a Concussion Curse, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes," Bellatrix whispered. Suddenly Tullia Malfoy dabbed at her pale eyes with a linen handkerchief, and Bellatrix had a terrible feeling that something had gone awfully wrong. She gulped and found Voldemort's eyes again. He shook his head just a little, somewhat sorrowfully. Abraxas Malfoy continued, his voice breaking,

"When he woke, Lucius was vomiting profusely. He was confused; he was babbling incoherently. He didn't know where he was. He didn't recognise Narcissa. Soon, he began leaking clear liquid from his ears and his nose. We all panicked and sent for Healer Elva Avery at once. She came and began working as diligently on Lucius as she could. For hours, she worked. But Lucius began having seizures. Healer Avery said his brain was swollen from the Curse. He lost consciousness, and then he stopped breathing, and then…"

Tullia began to cry audibly, to shake, and Bellatrix knew then that this story had a horrid ending. She took another step into the room, adjusting her grip on the wand she'd taken from Dumbledore. She watched as Tullia rushed to Abraxas, as Abraxas swept her up in his arms, and the two of them just stood there for a very long moment, lost in their grief. Bellatrix gaped in horror at Voldemort, who met her eyes with a dark, steely glare. There had been many, many casualties in the war. Somehow, this one felt different. Bellatrix knew why. Abraxas Malfoy had been utterly loyal to Lord Voldemort for many years. Voldemort had known Lucius Malfoy well since he'd been a boy. This loss had to sting keenly, in a way the others had not. Bellatrix took another step toward Voldemort, who murmured carefully,

"Your sister Narcissa was holding his hand in the moment that he departed this life. It was not very long ago. She is still up there with him. Your mother has come; she has Draco in the nursery."

"Oh." Bellatrix couldn't breathe properly for a moment. She blinked a few times and tried to think of what to do. She remembered the way that Dobby had told her that Narcissa was looking for her, and she mumbled, "I ought to… perhaps I ought to go to her. To Cissy."

Voldemort just nodded a little. Bellatrix took a cautious step toward the Malfoys, and she cleared her throat before she said in a very awkward tone,

"I am very sorry, Mr and Mrs Malfoy. Lucius was the best of us. And he has always meant everything to my sister. He's been as good as a brother to me since he was little more than a boy."

Tullia turned her face from her husband. She was red and splotchy, and she sniffled hard, but she tipped her chin up and said in a proud, dignified voice,

"It is an honour and a privilege to serve the Dark Lord. I am bereft; I shall mourn my son until the end of my days. But to know that he fell in battle on the night that Albus Dumbledore was defeated… he died a hero's death."

"Magia eius sit aeterna," Lord Voldemort incanted in a solemn voice, and Bellatrix affirmed,

"May his magic be eternal. I'm very sorry."

She dashed out of the room then without another word, making her way up the staircase and down the corridor upstairs until she reached the suite she knew to be Narcissa's and Lucius'. She knocked, but when she got no reply, she turned the doorknob and opened the door. She could hear quiet crying from inside, and she padded carefully into the sitting-room, her boots creaking on the floorboards.

"Narcissa?" she called softly, the full form of her sister's name, which she so rarely utilised.

"In here."

Bellatrix followed the voice, the sound of the crying, and she found herself in the doorway of her sister's bed-chamber. She was struck then by a pitiful, rather traumatising sight - Narcissa perched in a small Rococo chair beside the large, cream-painted wood bed in which lay the pale-skinned, silver-haired corpse of her ardently beloved husband, Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix shut her eyes for a moment, struggling to accept what she'd seen. Finally, she cracked her eyes opened and glanced to Narcissa, and she said as gently as she could,

"May his magic be eternal."

It was almost ten o'clock at night when Voldemort finally got hungry enough to concede he needed food. He sat in his office, frazzled and devitalised, and he finally summoned Dobby and told the elf to bring him a meal. In a few minutes' time, a plate of hot sausages and butter bean stew had appeared on Voldemort's desk, along with a mug of Butterbeer. Voldemort sat back in his chair and sighed heavily, rubbing at his face and thinking over the day.

He'd awakened early in the morning with a strange, quivering feeling in his stomach that something was off, something was wrong. The battle the night before had been, unquestionably, the magnum opus of his movement to this point in time. It was almost all thanks to Bellatrix; in destroying Albus Dumbledore, she'd eradicated the most significant threat to his ascent and to him seizing power. Waking up this morning should feel like a rebirth, Voldemort knew. Instead, he'd cracked open his eyes with a sensation of dread and trepidation.

He'd pulled himself out of bed as carefully as possible so that he didn't disturb Bellatrix, and she'd gone on slumbering peacefully. Dressing in battle attire out of a niggling sense that he ought to be prepared for whatever he might encounter. Voldemort had gone downstairs and had found himself glad he'd awakened and dressed when he'd discovered an owl waiting for him in the dining room with an urgent letter from Abraxas Malfoy, writing to say that Lucius Malfoy had fallen victim to the Concussion Curse he'd taken in the battle the night before. Frantically, Voldemort had left for Malfoy Manor, leaving instruction for Bellatrix with Fan.

The next hour or so at Malfoy Manor had been a blur. Lucius Malfoy was dead. Healer Avery had not been able to save him; she'd done her very best. When Lucius had been conscious, Healer Avery had said, he'd shown terrible signs that his brain was irrevocably damaged. His pupils had been uneven and he'd had a horrific headache. He'd been confused and had had tingling in his fingers and in his legs. His nausea and vomiting had continued through Non-Emesis Spells. He had not responded to healing potions of any kind. He'd begun to seize and convulse, and once he'd lost consciousness and had stopped breathing, his heart and stopped, and Healer Avery had not been able to restart any of his systems. Narcissa Black Malfoy had held her husband's hand and had collapsed onto him as he'd died, and Abraxas had held Tullia Malfoy in her shocked grief. As Voldemort had been debriefed, Tullia and Narcissa had comforted one another near Lucius' body, and Abraxas had spoken with his master in a low, distraught tone.

Bellatrix had come, and she'd tried to soothe Narcissa before Lucius' body had been collected to be put into his shroud and prepared for the funeral that would come. But Narcissa had been so tormented that Bellatrix had insisted she be dosed with Draught of Peace and allowed to sleep. Druella Black had spent the day caring for her grandson Draco, occasionally checking in on Narcissa and giving her more calming potions and tea to soothe her.

Bellatrix had, on Voldemort's orders, gone to Carrow Castle to check on Amycus. He'd received another owl from Alecto notifying him that her twin brother's arm was gone, lost in the battle, and that his blood loss had been heavy and severe. He was recovering, Alecto said, and would survive, but Amycus was depleted and was emotionally upset at the loss of a limb. Word had also reached Carrow Castle about Lucius Malfoy's death, and Amycus had taken that news with some difficulty, compounding his own grievous injury. So Bellatrix had gone to see to the wizard.

Voldemort had then met for hours with a series of political allies, for this was not only the day of Lucius' death, but also the day after Albus Dumbledore's demise. He had received Orlo Flint to talk about coverage of Dumbledore's death in the Daily Prophet. The newspaper needed to paint Dumbledore as a lunatic, a blackguard and a reprobate who had acquired a wholly unearned positive reputation in the wake of his duel against Grindelwald. The paper needed to focus on his scandals, the dishonour that had roiled his long life. Let the press cast all the aspersions they could in their eulogies of Albus Dumbledore, Lord Voldemort told Orlo Flint. Not only was it critical that Voldemort be elevated through this incident, but Dumbledore's legacy must be crushed. That was crucial.

He'd met with Cygnus Black III, who had been emotionally out of sorts given Lucius' sudden death. After all, Cygnus had known Lucius very well for years, and the young wizard had married Narcissa out of love. Lucius was the father of Cygnus' grandson. So Cygnus was understandably quite shaken in his meeting with Voldemort. Still, it was the day after Dumbledore's death, and there was work to be done. With Dumbledore's death, allegiances would predictably shift. Businesses would change hands. Spies would need to be reinforced. There were all manner of financial issues to pin down. The meeting with Cygnus had been so exhausting that Voldemort had granted himself a tumbler of Blishen's after he'd finished. He'd sat before the fire and consumed the liquor as he'd listened to the Wizarding Wireless, to the witch reading the news talk about how Dumbledore and others had been found dead beneath a Dark Mark, inspiring deep fear in much of the wizarding world.

Voldemort had gone upstairs to check on Narcissa to find the witch with her toddler son curled up against her. Draco was napping peacefully, and though Narcissa's sleeping face was tear-streaked and visibly red and puffy, he'd let her rest. He'd then gone to see how Abraxas and Tullia were doing. They were doing terribly, of course; Tullia was almost physically sick with grief, heaving with sobs uncontrollably and shaking violently in Abraxas' arms. Abraxas was white as a ghost, looking numb and almost paralysed with shock. He just kept repeating, over and over again, "Lucius is gone. My dear boy has gone." All Voldemort could do was to mutter to them that he was very sorry for their misery, and that their son had indeed died a war hero.

He'd held a brief strategic meeting with Rookwood, Avery, Karkaroff, Yaxley, Selwyn, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Mulciber, Travers, Macnair, Rudy and Rabastan Lestrange, Dolohov, and a few others. The meeting did not feel nearly as celebratory as Voldemort had intended or hoped for it to; he'd wanted this to be something of a triumphant jubilee. He'd been preparing for, and hoping for, a gathering of his Death Eaters in which he proudly told of how Bellatrix had slain Dumbledore like the stupid pig he'd always been, of how their worst enemy had been defeated and how Lord Voldemort now walked the path to victory without any major hindrance. People would whoop and holler and cry out for him. They did, a bit. There were bangings of fists on the table in approval, grins of contentment and satisfaction, when Voldemort confirmed that Dumbledore was dead. But Bellatrix was absent from the meeting, so Voldemort could not hold up her achievement properly. She was at the Carrows', attending to the dismembered Amycus. And a heavy gloom hung over Malfoy Manor because of how Lucius had died. So the grand celebration was not so joyous as Voldemort had dreamed.

He'd read the evening edition of the newspaper and had been quite pleased with how Dumbledore's death had been painted by the press. The man had been a veritable loon, the Prophet asserted. He'd spent decades spreading all sorts of defamatory calumny, of building up his own mythology. He'd damaged people, climbing over others to achieve his own personal aims. He was no better than Grindelwald himself. The so-called Order of the Phoenix was no noble endeavour; it was not a collection of valiant heroes. No. It was a personality cult of those slavish to Dumbledore and hell-bent on making the wizarding world assimilated into the Muggle world. Any effort to protect magic, to preserve the culture and history of wizardry, would have been destroyed under Dumbledore. And so his death was a positive event for wizardkind. It was a sort of necessary euthanasia, an act that had saved the magical community from a roving madman set on destroying what so many held precious and dear. Voldemort had smirked at the newspaper and had written a letter to Orlo Flint to express his satisfaction, sending the letter off by owl before deciding at last that he desperately needed food.

So now, at very nearly ten, he sat eating sausages and butter bean stew, sipping his Butterbeer, and he shut his eyes. He took a quivering breath and listened to the slow jazz music that was playing on the Wireless, not quite absorbing it, just letting it be ambiently present in the office. Then there were a few knocks on his door, and he realised at once who it was. His face snapped up, and he huffed a breath as he set down his fork.

"Come in, Bella."

The door to the office creaked open, and Bellatrix came in, looking weary. She was wearing a dress that seemed oddly formal for what was going on today, a long dress with a flowing, pleated skirt and sheer, oversize sleeves. Her hair had been braided earlier today, but she appeared to have undone the style, and now her curls tumbled around her shoulders. She came walking into Voldemort's office, looking very solemn indeed, the complete opposite of how bubbly, exuberant, and joyful she'd been the night before when she'd murdered her cousin Sirius and Albus Dumbledore and when she'd had very good sex with Voldemort. He gestured for her to sit in the chair opposite him, and when she sank down and bowed her head respectfully, he asked,

"Have you eaten? Shall I have Dobby bring you some food?"

"I ate at the Carrows' a few hours ago, Master," Bellatrix murmured. "Please. Go ahead."

He picked up his knife and fork and sniffed a little, cutting into a sausage. He took a bite and gave her a suspicious look, for she had pursed her lips and was staring down at her hands in her lap.

"How is Amycus?" Voldemort inquired. Bellatrix shrugged a little.

"The Healer told him that, unfortunately, there is nothing to be done about his arm. They fixed the stump up for him so that it isn't painful, and so that he won't have any phantom sensations or anything. But the damage is entirely too great to regrow the arm from scratch. He'll just have the one arm from now on. Fortunately, he's still got his wand hand."

"Hm. Alecto said he lost quite a bit of blood," Voldemort noted, scooping some stew into his mouth. Bellatrix nodded.

"They gave him potions, Master. He's fine now. Agnes Carrow was very worried over him. She asked me to reassure you that both of her children would be fighting for you again very soon."

Voldemort paused, his fork tines scraping just a little on his plate. Suddenly he remembered Agnes in Bellatrix's youth, in the brief time he'd spent in the past, when he'd apologised to her for cuckolding Aloysius and humiliating the man. He remembered doing it, too. He remembered taunting Aloysius in the Slytherin Common Room about how he'd made Agnes come, and how Agnes had blushed terribly, and how Aloysius had seemed horribly wounded at the idea that the witch he loved so fiercely had found actual physical pleasure with someone else. Voldemort cleared his throat, and he said delicately to Bellatrix,

"When things settle down a little, I shall pay them a visit. The Carrows."

Bellatrix looked entirely unaffected but nodded. She returned her gaze to her hands and mumbled, "My mother is going to stay here for the time being. To care for Cissy and Draco. It isn't reasonable to expect Mrs Malfoy to look after anyone but herself just now."

Voldemort put his lips into a line. "No, I suppose not. I must admit, I've never heard of a Concussion Curse having such dire effects. Something about that Curse must have just hit him awkwardly, or it must have been charged strangely. Of all the people to kill Lucius Malfoy… Arthur Weasley. I wouldn't think the man would have murder in him."

"I don't think he meant to kill Lucius, Master," Bellatrix said sardonically. "I don't think Arthur Weasley possessed the courage to kill, even in combat. He meant to knock Lucius unconscious so he couldn't fight. A Concussion Curse made sense from a man like Weasley. But if it were awkwardly charged, or it settled strangely in Lucius' brain… well, let's just say I myself have accidentally been lethal before. It happens."

"It happens," Voldemort repeated softly. He sighed. "The funeral will, by necessity, be family only. I know you, and Narcissa, and Tullia and Abraxas, will understand. The war is not over. Not only are such gatherings unwise at this moment, but to hold a grand funeral for someone killed by a stray Concussion Curse is bad optics. It's not good for morale. The movement needs to focus on the defeat of Dumbledore, not Amycus Carrow's severed arm or Lucius Malfoy's death in combat."

Bellatrix nodded and flicked her eyes up to Voldemort. "Cissy mentioned, during a brief state of lucid consciousness earlier, that she guessed you would insist on Lucius just being buried here on the family grounds, with only close family present. Everyone knows their place, My Lord. Everyone knows where they stand."

He hesitated, and then he asked her, "And you? Do you know where you stand, Bella?"

She stared at him with parted full lips and whispered, "What do you mean?"

He blinked. "Last night, after your battle heroics, and after your body brought me enormous pleasure, I told you that I wanted you for my consort. I told you that I wanted you with me throughout what came next. I meant what I said, Bellatrix. So now I ask you… do you know where you stand?"

Bellatrix surprised him greatly then, for she cleared her throat quietly and glanced away for a brief moment. She finally returned her gaze to Voldemort and looked resolved as she told him,

"I do not think that what I saw in my mind in the last whispers of sleep this morning was a figment of my imagination. So, My Lord, will you please tell my what on Earth it means that I saw you making me a second, larger version of my diamond star pendant, which you intended on giving to a teenage version of me on our wedding day?"

Her eyes brimmed red then, and suddenly she looked angry, like she'd been betrayed. She looked like someone had slapped her, like someone had lied maliciously to her. Voldemort's mouth fell open. Was that what he'd done? He'd withheld the truth from her since he'd come back to this time. That much was valid. He gulped hard and stammered,

"B-Bella, I… I don't know why you… I don't know why you saw that."

"Oh. All right. I must be mad." Bellatrix shrugged, and a single tear escaped her eye. "Or it was just a very silly dream, a very complicated and silly dream that my mind cooked up. I've no idea why my sleeping brain thought to create this place, this Praelia House, where you were making a new necklace to give me, where you'd traveled back to marry a younger version of me. I've no idea why my mind created that illusion, My Lord, but if you say you don't know, then I must believe you, for you are the Dark Lord. May I go, please? Lucius has died today."

She pushed her chair back and started to rise without his permission. Voldemort flew to his feet and rushed around the desk. Bellatrix began to walk toward the office door, but Voldemort reached desperately for her elbow and then pulled her toward him. She clutched at the lapels of his frock coat as she stumbled and lost her balance, and as he caught her, he wrapped his arms around her and bent to kiss her forehead. He murmured against her skin then, speaking very gently.

"Bella. Listen. I will say this as briefly, as concisely, and as truthfully as I can. I do not wish to dwell on it. All that matters is that I am telling you the truth. I will tell you what happened, and then our lives will go on, because I know… I know… that this is my real life, that this is the time and place where I am meant to be, and if I lose you here, I will lose you forever. So. Please. Just listen carefully, and then let us proceed."

She pulled back and stared up at him, frowning curiously. He swallowed hard, his heart thrumming a tattoo inside his chest. He tried to steady his breath, and he stroked at Bellatrix's arm as he informed her,

"On the thirty-first of October, I went to Godric's Hollow to kill the Potters. I killed James and Lily. When I went to kill the boy, Harry, the Killing Curse rebounded on me. I blacked out and was lost in a cold, empty void for what felt like a very long while. When I woke up, I was in the rooms in Malfoy Manor where I'd boarded before the war, and they were decorated as they'd been years earlier. I met you that day - a very young you. You see, Bella, I had been thrown back in time, against my will, to the summer of 1968."

She was gaping at him, open-mouthed and shocked, and his mouth felt dry as he continued thoughtfully,

"You know, I had to explain this time travel to you in that era, too. Hm. Anyway. I met you then, and you met me. Of course, I already knew you; I'd known you for a very long time. I'd loved you for a very long time. But I couldn't tell you that. I fell more in love with you than ever. You were little more than a girl, but you tumbled head over heels for me. You abandoned Rodolphus, and you -"

"Wait." Bellatrix brazenly interrupted him and squeezed at his frock coat. She looked emotional. "The dream. I… in the dream, in your mind, you were thinking about me marrying you instead of marrying Rodolphus. Are you saying that I… that we…"

Voldemort recalled the embarrassing way he'd said to her, here in this time, I was meant to be your husband. He just nodded, silently, and Bellatrix gasped. Voldemort huffed a breath and told her,

"Your mother is the one who encouraged you to marry me after you broke things off with Rodolphus. She thought it would be an advantageous match, since I was climbing politically, and that I would agree happily to marry into the House of Black. And so, after only a few months of rather frantically falling in love, and with you deciding not to go back to Hogwarts, we married. I gave you that star pendant two days before the wedding. Praelia House was our home in that time."

Bellatrix looked like she was going to sob as she choked out. "Praelia. Warrior. Like Bellatrix."

He shrugged helplessly. "Well, yes; I named the place for you."

She shook her head and asked him, "If you loved me there, and if I was your young little wife, My Lord, and if we were happy, then why did you come back to this time, where I am old and I was Rodolphus' wife again?"

He scoffed and stroked at her jaw. "You are not old. Anyway, I had no choice in the matter. I fell asleep with you naked in my arms, and when I woke up… you were gone. I was in Danby, and it was after I'd killed the Potters, and… and I was back to where I'd started. At least I knew I had to tell you that I loved you, that I'd loved you for a very long time. I have come to believe that the time I spent in the past was a sort of lesson, intended to shake me to my senses. I needed some force to jar me into finally revealing the depth of my love for you, to try to make you mine after over a decade of pining for you."

"Oh." Bellatrix tipped her head against Voldemort's sternum and breathed shakily. He kissed her curls and murmured,

"So, that, I suspect, is why you dreamed of me making your diamond star pendant before your wedding. Because I did that, in another time and place."

"Oh," she said again, her voice muffled by his clothes.

"Bella," Voldemort said, glancing back toward his sausages and stew and realising he didn't care about food right now. He could eat tomorrow, or some other time. Food simply didn't matter at the moment. "I find myself exhausted by the last few days, and in reality there is much chaos yet to come. Go up to your suite and pack a case and bring it to Danby. I want you to stay with me for a while."

She took a step back from him and dipped into a deep, reverential curtsy, bowing her head respectfully and lowering her eyes as she said,

"Yes, Master. You know, I hope, that we all live and die in your service. Amycus lost an arm for you, and he is not angry. Lucius died for you, and that is the way of things. And you know, don't you, Master, that I would die a thousand deaths for you?"

"You won't, though," Voldemort said stiffly, remembering how he'd been so close to having her craft a Horcrux in the past. He gulped. "You'll live a very good life with me. That's what you'll do. Now go pack your things; I'd like to get some rest. Dismissed."

She scurried from the office without another word, leaving Voldemort a bit dizzy where he stood.

Author's Note: Oh, dear. Poor Lucius. And things aren't quite as cheery and lighthearted as Voldemort had hoped for after Dumbledore's death. But hopefully things will pick up soon!

As always, thank you so very, very much for reading and a thousand thanks for reviewing.