The Dolohovs house was a thing of luxury despite that they were not one of the twenty-eight. They'd made their way to the top fairly fast — Bellatrix wondered if it was because Dolohov senior was in Voldemort's inner circle. They were after all, hosting him here tonight in a party in which many of the sacred twenty-eight had been invited. Voldemort looked dizzyingly handsome in exceptionally elegant steel grey robes with silver serpent clasps. As she listened to him talking to her family she remembered how only the night before they'd sat beneath moonlight talking magic and adventures and all she could think was: dance with me. He'd given her a knowing smile but said nothing until the Blacks had been well and truly sated with the promise their gold was going to a good cause and he'd passed her to move to the next group of witches and wizards vying for his attention, squeezing lightly at her wrist as he'd passed her.

"Miss Black." He said, and she raised her gaze to him, "I was wondering if you would do me the honour of a dance later tonight? After I have expressed my deepest gratitudes to the Dolohov's for hosting me, perhaps?"

Bellatrix's eyes lit up and she nodded, maintaining calm, "of course my Lord."

It rather seemed the Dolohov family delighted in the fact that they were first to host him officially since he'd come out into the public of their trusted circles. There were enough now enough who were loyal to him. Now he knew where those most loyal to his cause were it was time for the next step. It was time to make his name known aloud, rather than in the whispers of which their society spoke of him. The Dolohov's entrance hall had been opened up for dinner and now everyone was talking, dancing, gossiping.

Now, despite there being a dazzling confection of magical fountains, an enchanted orchestra set for the dancing couples across the hall and a selection of exquisite wines all on display tonight, Bellatrix stood with her back against the wall as she watched Andromeda from a distance. As the early August heat washed over her, Bellatrix couldn't help but think how drastically things seemed to have changed in the past month. Andromeda had become more of a recluse than usual, she had disappeared into her room, started coveting letters and keeping secrets.

Bellatrix had her secrets too. A whole two weeks of meeting with Him almost every night. Lord Voldemort. She was quiet about it because she was greedy. She wanted him to herself. It seemed, because of how often he called her back, he wanted her to himself too. He beckoned her frequently and Bellatrix had grown used to seeing his large grey eagle owl perched on her balcony every other night with instructions on where to meet him that night. He was magnetic, he spoke of interesting politics, he had a tale for every day of his life. She'd learnt he was forty-one, a year older than her father. She learnt that he'd travelled to the continent and that he'd learnt magic there beyond what Hogwarts could teach him. She leant of his politics, his cause. They'd also spoken of meaningless things, enjoyments of life. She was enthralled by him, by his magic, by his might. Better still, Bellatrix was entirely herself around him. She was her wicked, cruel self and he seemed to relish it.

Andromeda had asked where she was disappearing at night. She wasn't stupid she said, she heard her leaving and coming back at Merlin knew what hour. They'd barely rowed but Bellatrix had refused to tell, and Andromeda hadn't strung more than two sentences together when speaking to Bellatrix since. It was a silly little argument, but it didn't matter. Once they went back to school in a few weeks time, they'd be speaking again.

What Bellatrix had refused to tell was that in the last few days, she had begun learning. Their venues had changed from grassy verges and twinkling rivers to desolate mines and wild moors. Every time they met somewhere new and she went home sewn by another stitch in the massive machination that was dark magic, exhilarated from the rush, blood pumping through her veins.

She wore the marks of 'something new' on her ribs today. Her brows furrowed a little as she clutched champagne in one hand and curled her other arm around her slender torso. Dittany had cleared up the wound, but it was still bruised. The bubbles did little to entice her into taking another sip. She was watching Andromeda with a strange curiosity, thinking, analysing, deciding. She didn't like the things she spoke about — she didn't like that she used language like 'muggle born' or sounded particularly tense when they spoke of the inferiority of mudbloods and their positions in the Ministry of Magic. The thought made Bellatrix's skin itch, despite that she only had on a thin backless black silk dress tonight.

"Don't stand here looking miserable all night."

Rodolphus Lestrange had come to stand beside his fellow classmate and childhood friend. He was a tall, broad and muscular boy, a few months older than Bellatrix but still in the same year as her. He had dark brown hair, dark eyes, thick brows, a strong jaw — classically handsome pureblood features, but he looked like he could knock out a man twice his size — probably because he could. He was beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team for a reason after all. Both he and Bellatrix knew they were to be engaged to one another and truly they didn't mind. They'd known each other since they were babies, they'd grown up together, attended school together — they were best friends. If she had to marry, Bellatrix was glad at least it was to him.

"I'm not miserable." She replied, hardly sparing him a glance, "I'm watching."

"Could've fooled me."

"Anyone could fool you Rodolphus, you're not exactly the sharpest wand in the box."

Rodolphus scoffed, "Salazar above, Black, dispensing with the pleasantries before I've even got you a proper drink?" Bellatrix finally tore her gaze from her sister and gave him a smirk. He grinned back and he threw his arm around her shoulder, "c'mon. Stop worrying about Andromeda and come have a drink with us. Your friends."

Before she could protest, he pulled her over to the group of Slytherins she knew from school. Her friends were an expensive collection of burgeoning politicians, haughty aristocrats and magical royalty. Antonin Dolohov who's parents were hosting the dinner party and whose family owned half of wizarding Russia. Augustus Rookwood a tall slim black haired boy in their year whose father worked directly beneath the Minister of Magic. Walden Macnair a broad boy with dirty blonde hair, emerald green eyes with a penchant for violence. Lucius Malfoy the blonde pointed nose grey eyed aristocratic ponce of their group. Evan Rosier and Vera Rosier, twins and Bellatrix's French cousins from her mother's side who looked every part blonde haired blue eyed Rosier royalty. Roselyn Greengrass, a sharp tongued, sharp faced platinum haired witch whose family were Spanish wizarding royalty. Zora Zabini, a beautiful, brown haired golden eyed witch of the high priestesses of Birnin Zana.

Before she could linger too long, everyone around her went quiet.

"Miss Black." His quiet, commanding, deep voice cut through the air.

Bellatrix turned, the first to fall into a little curtsey. Everyone else followed, bowing or curtsying. Yes, they got in line behind her very well, and if she followed him. . .

"My Lord." She said as she rose, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I believe I was promised a dance." He said, extending his palm.
She slid her slender long fingers into his large, rough palm, a smile gracing her soft, plump lips, "of course."

He clasped her fingers and swept her onto the ballroom floor and suddenly she noticed dozens of pairs of eyes on them. He didn't seem to mind nor care, he was just focussed on her. He was a natural leader. Purebloods of any kind of standing were not a raucous breed, they were dignified and centred, and that's exactly what he embodied. That was exactly why they followed him.

"Your friends." He said softly, "they're all particularly envious of you."
"They're not the only ones, I'd wager." She said, fingers slipping just a little over his cloaked shoulder to clutch further at him, "I have an enviable dance partner." She liked feeling him so close. They hadn't done anything quite so intimate before.

He'd touched her hand just a few nights ago — she'd felt her stomach jolt with want and her head spin, and all he'd done was help correct her stance when after she'd explained she was captain of the duelling club and he duelled her, he'd won within minutes. She was exceptionally good for a witch her age. She had magic coursing veins, born through centuries of the purest blood. She'd grown up knowing wands and how to use them, but she knew magic without a wand better than anyone else and he would teach her to harness that power. He remembered the night he found her on the balcony, the first time he'd spoken to her. She was casting spells in the ancient tongue, something he could've never dreamed of doing at age seventeen. Runes, dark magic, potion making, alchemy, herbology. She was exceptional at it all. Her stance was expected of a pureblood who'd never done more than classroom duels and causing mayhem. She'd lasted better in the next duel against him.

Captain? He'd taunted her with a smirk and she'd scoffed and said it was hardly fair because he was much older and far more experienced than her. Miss Black, he'd said, are you calling me old? She'd giggled and shrugged, if the boot fits. He'd scoffed then and re-adjusted her stance, what a very cheeky little girl you are, he'd said, his hand curling around her fingers as he stood behind her and moved her just a couple of inches here and there, try this. She'd almost hit him with a curse then. He was pleased.

"Flattered as I am, I am not talking of dancing," he said quietly as he led her through their three step. His grip on her palm tightened a little, "you far surpass them and they all know it. They follow you, and every one of them only wishes they had half of your magical strength."
"They are all uniquely talented, but — we Blacks are of enviable position even amongst the twenty-eight. Magic is might, as you say, and the Blacks embody it."
"No." He said quietly, his gaze studying her pretty face as she looked up at him, "you embody it."

Raw magical power. It caused through her veins. Bellatrix Black was perfect in a way that he would never be. She was born knowing things he had to scavenge to find. Her name, her blood, her history — she could read upon the pages from the day of her birth and know entirely with the utmost truth 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 and what she was meant for. She didn't have to waste years of time as he did, tearing and re-building himself over and over again, fortifying his mind and magical prowess against those that would question him such meagre things such as 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑. She had no need to invent herself, her worth was already written assuredly as her name in the stars. Lord Voldemort would destroy himself over and over without thinking twice on it, he'd frequent the halls of pain and damage and injury if it awarded him strength. He would tarnish his soul, scorch and rot himself all for the privilege and sovereignty she commanded with a flick of her little finger.

Owning her would be liberating her. He thirsted for knowledge, to understand her, to take her apart to put her back together, to make her kneel and to see what that submission made of her. He wanted a challenge, but more importantly he wanted someone who wasn't afraid. Bellatrix Black would be it.

"I'd like to see you tomorrow night." He said as though it left no negotiation.
Bellatrix gazed at him, excitement and curiosity lighting up grey eyes so they shone like the glint of a silver blade by moonlight, "why?"

He liked that about her. That she questioned and yet seemed so very willing to do as he told her. He recalled just four days after he'd met her they'd been walking through a quiet, rich little town in Suffolk by late evening and both agreed they were hungry. Bellatrix commented that she ought to go home if she wanted anything to eat tonight, and Voldemort didn't much feel like letting her go. It was spontaneous and most certainly not a date. The thought didn't cross her mind that it was either. He'd bewitched all the muggles to leave and imperiused the staff to serve only them for the night. Dinner had ended up been a luxurious experience he found himself remiss of before. Then, he'd had no one he'd wanted to dine with and converse with, for everyone simpered and was far too nervous to speak to him. She was not, she didn't hold back. As dinner appeared before them, they had shared ideas on how he could ensure his endeavours succeeded — suggesting names of people they could easily bring onto side given they all shared his beliefs.

"Many of their mothers and fathers are already on side." He'd explained, "I wonder if your peers would be so reciprocal."

"Of course they would," she replied as she cut into the beautifully done, tender chicken breast on her plate, "in fact a lot of us think you have exactly the right idea. Though, I do have one thing to ask."

Voldemort inclined his head as he picked up his wine glass, "by all means."

"What it takes to implement those ideas is more important. Do you have what it takes?"

"I know what the world needs," he said, mild amusement flitting to his face for half a moment. In all his time, no one had the guts to ask him that. Not Abraxas, Lestrange or Dolohov in his inner circle, nor Cygnus, Walburga or Nott as his biggest funders. It seemed with her question alone, she was the only one who'd ever given it genuine thought beyond it being quite simply 'a nice idea'. He continued, "I've always known."

"What makes you fit to decide what the world needs?"

"I've learnt the kind of magic no one else in this world has."

"What's magic got to do with politics?"

"Everything." He replied without missing a beat, "it's power."

"Power is nothing without the right mind to wield it."

"There is only power, and those too weak to seek it."

"So you're the right mind, are you?"

"Yes I am."

Lord Voldemort had never been questioned before. Not since school at least, and since then not by anyone who valued their life. She could answered him so freely, questioned him so scrutinisingly, fix her gaze on him so steadily. If he wasn't so certain of himself and his status, he would believe he'd met his match. Alas, he was not the kind of man to believe such a thing. He couldn't deny however, that there was more to her than met the eye. He was curious by her mind. She was beautiful no doubt, but she was intelligent too, cunning, arrogant. Everything that made a Slytherin and also made a Black. He liked their conversations. She spoke of his cause in a way no one else seemed to. In her questioning alone, she gave his cause more life than anyone who poured money into him ever had.

Another thought that would've passed the mind of a normal man was the question whether this witch made him. . . nervous? But again Lord Voldemort was not that kind of man. He was above and beyond. He wasn't unnerved so easily. He was impatient perhaps with the scope of possibility when it came to her. He could influence her, or infiltrate Hogwarts, or even have Dumbledore killed off. No. He liked her too much to make her his lackey to merely have sent to Azkaban in duty for a good cause. He'd seen into her mind — it was like a diamond in the rough, glittering beneath the charred bits of coal which just needed to be gently tapped off, or perhaps left if that's what made her who she was.

She gazed at him then, like he was the only man in the world. She believed him with every fibre of her being. They'd shared dessert and a glass of wine each, a platter of ten bite-sized confections put before them which they'd halved so they could both try all of the delicate little cakes. She'd positively moaned at the almond cream cake and he'd ordered her another. He wasn't sure why, perhaps he just liked hearing her moan. She'd admitted she liked talking with him. He kissed her knuckles and bid her goodnight, promising her he'd write to her soon. He'd decided that night that he would begin tutoring her in the dark arts. She exuded dark magic, it would only be right.

"Your sister, Andromeda." He said, snapping back to their current situation in which they were dancing. He continued without looking from her and without answering her first question, "she is exceptionally suspicious of where you've been going."
Bellatrix seemed to hesitate then, her gaze flickering to her father first as Lord Voldemort turned her as part of their dance, the symphonies loud enough to drown out their quiet conversation, "though she's gladly threatened me with our parents, she's not that stupid. We sisters stick together. However, I am sure you'll know how this could look to my father should he find out?"

"He has many skills but one of them isn't getting inside my head." He walked her three steps to the left and turned her again, "I must admit, I had no idea you were quite so concerned what others thought of you."

"Not others," she took a dip in his arms with all the grace and elegance of a pureblood princess born and bred into every excellence of this world, "but I'm not stupid either, I know people talk, and I know exactly what they'd say should anyone find out I was spending my evenings unaccompanied with a man my father's age of whom I have no direct relation."

"Yet not so concerned to stop yourself from coming." He countered lightly, "may I ask Miss Black," he continued, "who do you suppose will mind if they find out?" He turned, dark eyes taking her in slowly, "Your mother perhaps, is the only one so weary of me."

He had a point to make here. He was Lord Voldemort. No one could question him — save for Bellatrix, it seemed. If her father had something to say, what did it matter to him? Everyone would one day be in his service anyway. If he liked talking to Cygnus Black's intelligent, wickedly dark little daughter, who was to stop him from doing so? Who would risk his wrath to take from him what he wanted?

Bellatrix understood completely. She shrugged lightly, "I find I don't care so much what my mother thinks."

"Then are you concerned I would tarnish your reputation?"

Bellatrix looked up into his pitiless eyes, "why sir," she said calmly, "I don't suppose anyone would believe you if you tried."

Voldemort couldn't help but laugh then, turning her in his arms, "you intrigue me, Miss Black."
"The feeling is mutual, my Lord." She said honestly.

Voldemort considered her for a moment, "we've begun to get to know one another well these last few weeks wouldn't you say?"

Bellatrix felt her heart thump in her chest suddenly, despite that she didn't show any hint of her surprise, "I believe so, yes."

"No one has ever had the nerve to speak to me the way you have now on multiple occasions, granted the first time you did not know who I was. You don't care what people think of you, including those closest to you. You don't fear repercussion, not in the same way others your age do." He paused to spin her in his arms and pull her back in, "I do not trust wizards who cannot look me in the eye but you've never once faltered, and all it took to find what I need, was for me to stop looking for a man. I believe you have potential, more so than any of your peers who yes, I have studied at great length. None of them have stood out to me, but you. . ." he seemed to trail off then, dark eyes glistening as he studied her, the pair wrapped up in their dance and glistening amongst the others, "I need someone I can trust to give me information from inside Hogwarts."

"You need a spy." She said with far too wicked a grin, "I'm not very subtle I'm afraid."
"Yes, I am all too aware by now that you have an exceptionally unwavering proclivity for trouble." He remarked quietly, a genuine laugh falling from his throat, "but I intend to teach you how to look entirely guilty but get away with every awful thing your dark heart desires."

Bellatrix stared at him as she followed his steps as though it was instinct, "teach me?"

"You are going back to school in only two and a half months, and I find myself considering how very. . . lacking of a proper education you will have when its very clear you are well beyond your peers. In fact, you are well beyond many of the wizards who work for me now. I should like to make you my own student over the remainder of this summer and continue your education once you leave that school."

Bellatrix had to remember to breathe and move as their dance began to come to a close and their steps began to become slower and smoother. He truly saw her. He truly heard her.

"Student." She repeated, eyes glittering as though he were offering her water in a never ending desert.
"Student, apprentice, disciple, pupil of the dark arts. Call it what you will. All I mean to ask, Miss Black, is how far you are willing to go in the pursuit of knowledge and power."

"To the gateway of stars and beyond."

How very sharp she was, and yet she could speak in such dulcet tones with him. This witch could be moulded to something distinguished, illustrious and brilliant beneath his mentorship. She was ravenous. She was greedy for honour, for power and though he didn't see it, for love.

"Good." He said softly as their dance ended and she dipped into a curtsey and he a bow. He plucked her hand in his own and kissed her knuckles, his line of sight never leaving her own, "your lessons will begin tomorrow."

Voldemort knew that with logic anyone was easy to sway. Particularly in this world where he pretended he was at home. Bellatrix however, felt far more easy to talk to than anyone else he'd encountered. She was the perfect balance of courteous in front of others, and cheeky when they were alone. He'd played his part well, acting like he was one of them. He'd pretended until he'd become them and they didn't look twice at him now as the had when he'd been eleven year old mudblood Tom. He'd lied and manipulated and cheated his way to the top of this table, and he never intended to move.