Voldemort let out a very long breath as he stood in his capacious sitting room, hesitating before pulling open the door. He'd dressed conscientiously today, in simpler attire than he'd been wearing as of late, because he knew he would need to quickly wrench his garments open and drag himself out. He had on black wool breeches with a forgiving fit, fastened only with a simple hook and eye clasp, and over those he had on his trusty dragonhide boots to his knees. His tunic wasn't even tucked in; it was a roughspun linen piece over which Voldemort had put on an elegant but unadorned black robe that buckled up the front and would part easily when he wanted it to.

He ought not to care, he knew, what he smelled like today. That should be the very least of his concerns. But he'd been acutely aware, through the sort of very unintentional Legilimency that happened to those born with the gift, that Bellatrix had been transfixed by the cologne he'd worn when she'd come to his office two days before Christmas. It had been a fragrance he'd been gifted by Yaxley a year earlier, a sophisticated aroma of cinnamon and wood, leather and citrus. So he'd applied it to himself today in hopes that it might help stir Bellatrix up a bit. He worried, just a little, that she'd panic and regret agreeing to what they'd plotted.

For some reason, Voldemort did not actually wish to rape her, or to even feel like he was raping her. That was not the point of this endeavour. That was not how he would find his pleasure. He would find his blissful release in the sound of her moans, in the feel of her overheated flesh, in the way she enjoyed it whilst people watched.

Thank goodness, Voldemort thought, Cygnus Black III worked for the Dark Lord as an agent but not directly as a Death Eater. He smirked a little at that; he was more than happy to make a cuckold of Rodolphus Lestrange, but some things were a step too far, even for him.

He cleared his throat and opened the door that led from his sitting room to the broad, cold corridor outside, the enormous chandeliers overhead casting flickering light upon the ancestral Malfoy portraits lining the walls and illuminating the fine carpet runners on the ground. He took long strides until he reached the arched doorway in the corner, descending the winding stairs to the level below, and then he saw Abraxas Malfoy's wife Flavia standing in the corridor with young Lucius, who was still home for the Christmas holidays.

Flavia, a tall and twig-thin witch with a perpetually sad sort of face and the personality of a dove, had hair that was more golden than Abraxas' silvery mane, but between the two of them, they'd made an appropriately blond Malfoy progeny in their only living child, Lucius. There had been many miscarriages before Lucius, Voldemort knew, and there had even been an infant born alive who had died in its cot at three days of age. The House-Elf had been viciously slaughtered for allowing that to happen; that had been when Dobby had been brought in as a replacement. So Lucius was Flavia's pride and joy, her only apparent source of happiness. Now Flavia turned to face Voldemort where she stood in crisply tailored plum robes, dipping in acknowledgement, and she murmured at Lucius to bow properly. Voldemort nodded and asked,

"Is the New Year's banquet still on for tomorrow, then, Flavia?"

She smiled just a little at him, rather knowingly. "Of course, My Lord. But you simply must allow me to have a birthday cake for you."

Voldemort shifted on his feet and sighed. Flavia had been two years younger than him at Hogwarts; she'd known him as a young Tom Marvolo Riddle. She knew perfectly well that his birthday was New Year's Eve, because she'd been in Slytherin when the matter had been discussed. Of course, young Tom Marvolo Riddle had usually been nearly alone at Hogwarts for his birthdays; his Sacred Twenty-Eight compatriots went home to grand families for the holidays. Now Voldemort shrugged and allowed her,

"If you simply must have a cake, Flavia, I shall allow it, but I beg you not to make an idiotic show of things. It is, first and foremost, New Year's Eve. Not my birthday."

"Of course, My Lord. Come, Lucius. I'm sure he's very busy." Flavia bowed her head and turned to go, taking her pale, eager-eyed son with her. It would only be a few years now until Lucius himself could join Voldemort's ranks, and Lucius seemed impatient, Voldemort thought. He pinched his lips and nodded stoutly to the boy, as if to reassure him there would be a place for him soon enough. Then he turned toward the Malfoys' stately, long dining room, which had two entrances, and he could see that Death Eaters were already filtering inside for the meeting he'd called today.

His fingers automatically adjusted their grip on the handle of his bony yew wand, for a strange bit of anxiety had come over him. He'd allowed himself to indulge his fantasies, the odd idiosyncrasy that had developed in his libido as of late. He'd let himself spill himself on the battlefield in November, watching Bellatrix torture Caspian Waterhouse. He'd let his mind run wild in a meeting, daydreaming about what he meant to do to her today, until he'd had come sticky against his thigh. He'd utterly lost control of himself whilst dancing with her, and then whilst kissing her. He knew that it was true that she had ahold of him, and that his mind and body were willing enough to erupt in situations that should have made him feel vulnerable, in places where it ought to have embarrassed him.

Today was a different expedition altogether. Today, Lord Voldemort was setting out to 'punish' his young, beautiful, devoted, and very married little Death Eater for allegedly making him cross. He would seek to humiliate her in front of an audience forced to look on as Master plundered servant. He knew he would like it very much, that it would bring him an almost indescribable amount of pleasure, but it would be absolutely nothing like what had come before. And so he could not help but feel a twinge of restlessness, an itch in his veins, as he approached the Malfoys' dining room with slow, deliberate steps.

The moment he entered the room, his followers all rose, going quiet, and Voldemort realised his face must be painted with dark intimidation today. The seats at the table were all filled, and Voldemort's eyes flicked at once to see that Bellatrix had very wisely taken a place between her husband and her brother-in-law Rabastan, with Abraxas Malfoy at the place of honour just to Voldemort's right. She'd not revealed her shoulders like he usually liked her to do, but he knew why. She'd chosen something easy for her lord and master to access during her 'punishment' - a long-sleeved frock, black lace over satin, a corseted bodice with loose and flowing skirts Voldemort would be able to hike up and use to conceal her for some modicum of privacy. He gulped as her eyes met his, and she watched her dark gaze flare and widen as she bowed her head respectfully, her wild black curls falling loose around her porcelain face.

"Sit," Voldemort commanded everyone, and they all sank back into their chairs as Voldemort took his place at the head of the table. He looked round and shrugged, and then he set his pale wand on the stout table and said in a bored tone, "I presume you all had a sufficiently happy Christmas. Tomorrow is another day of celebration. You are all forbidden to become so drunk and incapacitated from your celebrations that we are collectively exposed and defenceless. Our enemies could use the occasion as an opportunity to assail us when we are all soaked through with drink, and I will have no such thing. Am I truly understood on this matter?"

Yes, My Lord.

Of course, Master.

The murmurs of dutiful acquiescence circulated around the table, and Voldemort just gave a crisp nod. He waited for silence to settle over the space again, and then he glanced briefly to Bellatrix. She was rather nervously looking around, from her fellow Death Eaters to Rodolphus to Voldemort himself. Finally, she glanced down at her fingernails in her lap, and Voldemort could see that her chest was moving quickly, that she was panting a little. She was just as anxious as Voldemort had been, he thought. Did she regret agreeing to their arrangement? There was only one way to find out. He had planned, perhaps, on dragging this meeting out, on interrogating a few of the others about minutiae, but he thought he would get straight to the thesis of what he and Bellatrix had plotted.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Voldemort sneered then, and her face snapped up, her chocolate-hued eyes going spherical. For his part, he narrowed his own eyes at her, glaring aggressively as he picked up his wand off the table and toyed with it slowly. He tipped his head, giving her an almost questioning look. She nodded very quickly, her full ruby lips parting. She finally whispered, in a voice that would have sounded terrified to the others but sounded charged with anticipation to Voldemort's ears,

"Y-Yes, My Lord?"

Voldemort just kept his glare fixed on her for a long moment of uncomfortable silence, watching as Bellatrix shifted in her seat. Beside her, Rodolphus seemed very uneasy, eyeing his wife and then glancing past her to his brother Rabastan with a look of alarm. The young wizard, handsome enough with his strawberry blond hair and his pale eyes, had come dressed handsomely today in dark robes of rich blue tailored wool. Voldemort raised his eyebrows, feeling a little rush between his legs as he contemplated the notion of poor Rodolphus being made to endure the sight of his wife on the table beneath another man.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort hissed, hearing the aggressive snap in his own tone. He set his wand down and straightened his spine, and he demanded, "Where were you?"

Bellatrix feigned confusion then. She did a damned good job of it, too. She was remarkably convincing; her brows furrowed with a mixture of perplexed bewilderment and abject dread. She shrugged, desperately, helplessly, her face draining of colour until she was as white as snow. She finally dared to say, in a petrified, shaking voice,

"My Lord, I'm not… I'm not certain I know what you mean…"

Voldemort scoffed loudly and angrily. He shoved his chair back and flew to his feet, and everyone around the table startled a little in alarm. Voldemort leaned onto the table with both his hands and stared at Bellatrix as he began a dialogue of the supposed offence Bellatrix was meant to have committed.

"When last you and I met, two days prior to Christmas, Madam Lestrange, I commanded you to return to my office for a confidential logistics planning meeting at nine o'clock in the morning on the twenty-eighth. You never arrived. Where. Were. You? "

Bellatrix gasped and clasped her hands to her mouth, and suddenly her eyes welled with horrified tears. She shook her head wildly as the other Death Eaters eyed one another, all of them realising that Bellatrix was in deep trouble. Rodolphus looked shocked; he stared at Bellatrix and then at his brother as it seemed to register that his wife might be about to undergo a Cruciatus Cuse.

"My Lord." Bellatrix spoke then, and her voice was quiet and tremulous as she shrank back in her chair, her face full of terror, her eyes red-rimmed as tears started to worm down her cheeks. "Please, My Lord. Master. I admit it. I forgot about our meeting. I beg your forgiveness; I beg your mercy. Please do not kill me. I am so very sorry. I -"

"You forgot," Voldemort said in a velveteen slip. Beside him, Abraxas Malfoy cleared his throat and adjusted his position in his seat. It seemed that everyone was waiting for Voldemort to cast some sort of Unforgivable on Bellatrix. None of them had any idea what was coming. Voldemort kept his eyes locked on Bellatrix, who looked so frightened that it seemed she would be sick on the table. Voldemort rolled his eyes condescendingly at her evident fear and started to stalk around the table toward her until he was standing behind her chair. She stayed seated, shivering where she huddled with her hands folded. Voldemort demanded again, "You forgot, did you? I gave you the exact date and time of the meeting, and you… forgot? "

"I am very sorry, My Lord." Bellatrix was truly crying now, he knew. His entire body was coming alive; he was tingling from the inside out. He knew what he was about to do to her. He glanced around the table at Yaxley, at Avery, at Mulciber, at Rookwood. He saw their expressions, ranging from mild trepidation to pity, and then he flicked his eyes to Rodolphus Lestrange with his silent panic. Voldemort rolled his neck and cleared his throat, and he reached down and put his hands on Bellatrix's thin shoulders. She flinched rather dramatically, like she was afraid she'd die any moment at his hand. She whimpered and sobbed a little. Voldemort kept his voice profoundly irritated then as he noted,

"You are, ordinarily, a remarkably competent witch, Bella. You are, ordinarily, a notably loyal and devoted servant. Yet in this instance, Bella, you have failed me. You have been derelict of duty. And so… you must be penalised appropriately. As you master, I simply can't let such transgressions go unpunished, can I?"

"N-No. No, My Lord." Bellatrix shook badly where she sat with Voldemort's hands on her shoulders. All of those gathered around the table stiffened and seemed more uneasy than ever then. Bellatrix, though she was young and the lone witch at the table, was generally well-liked among her fellow Death Eaters. They were probably all anticipating a few minutes of a Cruciatus Curse for her. Certainly, Voldemort had induced torture on Death Eaters for less; he'd tortured his followers for simple snarky comments or for poor aim during combat. Crossing him by completely missing a scheduled meeting would surely earn excruciating pain.

They had no idea what was coming.

"Rodolphus. Rabastan." Voldemort sniffed lightly and looked from one brother to another. "Get up and get out of the way."

Rodolphus nodded quickly but looked completely horrified. Rabastan, who was stockier with slightly darker hair, rushed off with Rodolphus, dragging their seats to the very end of the expansive dining room table and sitting beside Nott and Macnair. Once their chairs were gone and there was more space at the table, Voldemort knew the moment was upon him, that he was about to do what he'd been thinking of doing to Bellatrix for a good long while now.

His throat felt dry, and his chest felt tight. Blood surged between his legs and made his cock flush hard, and his head began to spin. He found the presence of mind to step back from Bellatrix's chair and to say roughly to her,

"Get up, Bellatrix."

She obeyed him at once, and Voldemort glanced over to where he'd very deliberately left his

pale yew wand at the head of the table. He wondered how many people had noticed that he was ordering Bellatrix about now with no wand.

Now Bellatrix was facing him, gazing up at him, catastrophically gorgeous. She smelled delightful, he noticed. The sharp bite of pepper, sweet rose, and earthy moss. He stood there and pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at her, breathing in the aroma of her, taking in the sight of her face, which she'd expertly painted with artificial fear. Voldemort searched her dark brown eyes, looking for an answer to his unasked question. Permission. He was looking for permission. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and she murmured quietly,

"I am quite ready to accept my punishment now, My Lord. I realise I deserve it. I shall not fail you again."

"Mmm." Voldemort smirked. He sucked his teeth and then moved past Bellatrix. He shoved her chair aside to make a big space at the table. Then he whirled and, without any warning whatsoever, he moved quickly and roughly. He grabbed Bellatrix's small waist, squeezing her so tightly with his hands that she yelled out in pain, and then he wrenched her assertively around and slammed her down hard onto the dining room table.

There was an eruption of gasps then as Bellatrix faked shock at what Voldemort was doing to her. She yelped and grappled at the polished wood surface, her fingers slipping and her palms skidding, as Voldemort pressed her torso hard onto the table and snarled,

"You failed me, Bella; you won't do it again. Forgetful, spoiled little snit."

"Forgive me, My Lord!" Bellatrix wailed. Voldemort ignored her pleas and looked down the table to where Rodolphus was looking on in open-mouthed horror. Her husband started to turn his face away then, so as Voldemort reached inside his robes to unhook his breeches, he barked,

"You will watch, Rodolphus. As will every single Death Eater here. You will all witness the punishment Madam Lestrange endures for her apparent amnesia. Anyone who dares look away will suffer a Cruciatus Curse of their own."

The room fell heavy and silent then, except for Bellatrix's mournful keening where she was splayed on the table. Voldemort reached down to carefully pull up her skirts and found himself grateful for the fact that she'd chosen this particular dress. It was widely cut in such a way that he was able to draw up the flowing black lace around the both of them and keep what was happening concealed from view, though everyone knew perfectly well what was happening, and Voldemort and Bellatrix would be able to feel it.

Once he'd pulled her skirts around the two of them, with her legs dangling over the edge of the table helplessly, Voldemort pulled his cock out from his opened breeches. He was rock hard now, from the anticipation of it all. He reached between himself and Bellatrix and used his fingers to drag aside the crotch of Bellatrix's knickers, and he was shocked to feel that her cunt was swollen and drenched, hot and pulsing with as much apparent want as Voldemort now possessed. He had to keep himself from gasping, from giving himself away to his followers now. He just shut his eyes for a moment and instead snarled at Bellatrix,

"Silence, Bella."

She seemed to try and quiet her terrified cries then, tipping her head to the side on the table. Voldemort was a little shocked when, as if for dramatic effect, she sniffled helplessly and nodded with her curls covering her face. He needed her then, he thought. He lined up his cock and pushed into her, and he heard her gasp, and then moan softly as he began to thrust. He buried himself to the hilt, and he just let himself rest like that for a moment. He was quite dizzy, almost unbearably so. He clutched at Bellatrix's backside beneath her skirts, stroking at her skin, sinking his fingers into her flesh every now and then. For too long, he just stood there with his cock sheathed deeply inside of her, feeling himself pulse and twitch, feeling her hot and tight around him.

He'd meant to thrash into her, to make her scream. He'd meant to punish her, to make this seem like she was facing a rape-like, violent sanction for supposedly missing a scheduled meeting with him. But now all he could do was to drag his length out a little and then push it back in again, revelling in her wet heat around him, in the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands. He looked down to see her resting her face on her arms and breathing heavily, moaning with each exhale despite his command for her silence. Each time he pushed into her, she rocked forward a little on the table, but she did not seem nearly as distressed as she ought to have done, given the fact that she was allegedly being punished. Voldemort realised they would be discovered, that those assembled would see straight through their hoax. So he wrenched at her hips and growled in a feral, animalistic way, and he bent down to huff angrily at her,

"You little whore; you like it."

"I'm sorry, My Lord; I confess my devotion to you does not permit me to resist you…" Bellatrix's voice sounded drunk then, and Voldemort pulled back up to stand, curling up his lips and looking around the table. Everyone was staring at the 'punishment,' paralysed and disturbed. But Voldemort let out a low laugh and declared in an amused voice,

"Perhaps I ought not be so angry with your wife, after all, Rodolphus. She is as loyal as ever, it seems. I should absolve her at once for her single mistake, don't you think?"

He started to fuck Bellatrix more roughly then, gliding his hips in and out, his cock sliding easily since Bellatrix was pratically dripping wet with arousal. He felt her walls twitching, and as she moaned again, her face burrowing into her arms, he realised she was dangerously near her own climax. Rodolphus just stared, mouth agape, and said helplessly,

"You must… you must do as you will, Master."

"Yes. Of course, I shall do as I please," Voldemort nodded. He turned his attention back down to Bellatrix. He pulled his left hand out from under his skirts, and he began to stroke at her back, pulling her hair aside and then dragging his knuckles around her face, which was flushed and hot. He cycled his hips back and forth, his cock slick and hard, throbbing, leaking already. He felt her detonate then, felt her womanhood erupt into a burst of erratic contractions that hugged his shaft and soaked his member with a fresh flush of her fluids. She cried out rather loudly from the table, and as Voldemort touched at her searing hot cheek, he teased her mercilessly,

"You are being punished , Bella, and you've just come for me like a ruddy harlot. Do I need to give you a Cruciatus so you actually learn your lesson? Hm?"

"N-No, Master… I… ungh. Oh… I…" Bellatrix sounded breathless and thirsty. She turned her head a little and stared back at him, her eyes hooded at drowsy, her back heaving. He kept his strokes steady, but he could feel his own balls drawing up as his own body raced toward a point of no return. Bellatrix's voice was hardly audible then, a dehydrated croak. "I'm so sorry, My Lord. Sorry for missing the scheduled meeting. I betrayed you… I shall serve you properly… I am so sorry… sorry for being whorish now…"

Voldemort laughed cruelly and shook his head. "Mmm. Don't apologise for liking the feel of my cock, Bella. So long as you've learnt your lesson and promise to serve me well in future."

He rammed her roughly a few times then and grunted loudly, and then he felt his seed spill as his ears rang loudly and a hot sear of pleasure ripped through him. He took a fistful of Bellatrix's black curls and pulled at her hair until she gasped, and he held her hip hard throughout his climax. He felt his come pumping into her body into deep surges, and as that happened, he had to fight not to look weak, not to let out his own cracked vocalisations or to bend over at the waist or to whisper her name repeatedly like his mind was screaming at him to do. He kept his face as steely as he possibly could. When his climax had passed, He let his cock slide out of Bellatrix's body, and he took a half step back from her, touching at her and feeling the way a little river of his seed was streaming back out of her and leaking down her inner thigh.

Just like in his fantasy.

He did grunt softly again then, and Bellatrix just kept panting, like she couldn't quite believe what had happened. Voldemort used the privacy of Bellatrix's skirts to tuck his softening cock back into his breeches, hooking them up and closing his robe around himself. He lowered Bellatrix's skirts and hauled her down off the table. She was dishevelled, her hair and makeup a disaster. She was red-cheeked and was still breathless, and one shoulder of her dress had fallen down. Voldemort didn't fix any of it; he just reached to tuck some of Bellatrix's curly hair behind her ear whilst she stared up at him. Suddenly her full lips curled up just a tiny bit, as if she seemed secretly quite pleased with herself and with him, but then her smile vanished and was covered with a submissive look as she bowed her head.

"The next time I summon you for a meeting, Bella, you'll be in attendance. Won't you?" Voldemort said stiffly, and she murmured obediently,

"Yes, My Lord. I shall follow every single command you give me, My Lord. I promise you complete respect."

"Good girl," Voldemort purred, very meaningfully. She raised her eyes to him and nodded, and he tipped his head as he looked around the table at his troubled, intimidated Death Eaters. He sniffed and said, "Dismissed, all of you."

"Happy birthday, My Lord."

Voldemort turned around slowly from where he sat eating his Bresse pigeon with pea and truffle. He winced a little and then forced himself to quirk up his lips, quietly setting down his fork and knife.

"Happy New Year, Druella. Congratulations on the engagement of your daughter to Lucius Malfoy. Abraxas told me at the Christmas party."

Druella Black gave him an awkward little look, and in that moment, Voldemort didn't even need Legilimency. He could plainly tell that Druella had heard what had happened the day before to her daughter Bellatrix at the Death Eater meeting. Of course, neither Bellatrix nor Rodolphus would have been stupid enough to tell her, and what happened at Death Eater meetings was meant to stay strictly confidential, but word of the most shocking events always seemed to somehow get around. Loose lips sinking ships and all that. Druella looked a little upset, yet simultaneously frightened, and from where she stood in a silvery gown, she gestured to the gift table along the Malfoys' ballroom wall and announced,

"Cygnus and the Narcissa and I have brought you three bottles of fifteen-year-old De Clare Firewhisky - quite the speciality, you know. We hope you enjoy it."

Voldemort smirked. "Quite so. Thanks very much, Druella."

He started to turn back to his meal, in part because he didn't want his pigeon to go cold, and in part because he had little interest in speaking to his old classmate who was now the mother of the witch he'd just plundered publicly the day before. Out of the corner of his eye, Druella Black curtsied a little and then hurried away. Voldemort sighed and glanced about; the Malfoy ballroom had been filled with around ten round tables set up for formal dining, and Abraxas and Flavia had arranged for the crowd of Voldemort loyalists assembled to dine on a feast of Dorset crab with greens followed by the Bresse pigeon. Flavia had warned Voldemort that there would be a birthday cake at the end of it all. But this very evidently was not a birthday party , per se; the ballroom was adorned with spangles and banners in silver and gold to ring in the year 1972 at midnight, and appropriately cheerful music was playing.

"My Lord?"

"Hmm?" He looked up to see Abraxas Malfoy at the table where he was sitting, clad in elegant velvet robes in dark grey and black, his icy blond hair tied back in a tight braid. Abraxas sawed at his pigeon with the artfulness of a wizard from a patrician family with a thousand-year heritage at the highest echelon of wizarding society. He told Voldemort cautiously,

"The Hogwarts students are back to school in just a few days' time, My Lord. Lucius was wondering if he might have the opportunity to sit down with you individually before he goes home and… you know, talk shop."

Abraxas took the bite of the pigeon he'd cut, and Voldemort raised his eyebrows. He looked at Lucius, who seemed nervous where he sat beside his overprotective mother. Voldemort eyed the boy and said gravely,

"I should think Lucius is old enough to summon the courage to request a meeting himself."

Abraxas froze, and Flavia Malfoy gnawed her lip where she sat wearing celebratory turquoise robes with a pretty little hat. Lucius nodded and leaned forward a little.

"Of course, My Lord. Yes. Erm… might you be available, erm… have you any availability in your schedule on the second of January, before I go back to school?"

Voldemort gave a conciliatory nod. "Yes. Come to my office at ten, Lucius, and we shall discuss your future."

"Thank you, My Lord," Lucius Malfoy muttered.

Voldemort glanced over to the gift table, where the partygoers had piled wrapped trinkets of all sorts for him in an effort to stay in his good graces. But he realised he had no desire whatsoever for too much personal attention about his birthday. That was demeaning. So he looked at Flavia and said simply,

"Have Dobby cut up the cake and distribute the slices; people will know very well what it's for. I don't want a grand show."

"Yes, My Lord," Flavia nodded compliantly, immediately drawing herself from her chair and rushing off to find Dobby and give him the orders before everyone finished their mains. Voldemort sighed and ate the rest of his Brasse pigeon in silence, occasionally glancing up to stare at Bellatrix where she sat two tables over.

She was next to Rodolphus, who looked more than little glum today. Usually Rodolphus wore his strawberry blond hair in perfect coiffed waves, but it was noticeably messy today. He wasn't nearly formally dressed enough, either, Voldemort noted. They were seated with Bellatrix's parents and with Narcissa (Andromeda had, wretchedly, proven herself a Blood Traitor). Rodolphus' brother and his father Rasmus Lestrange were also at the table. Rodolphus' mother had died years earlier in an accident handling a Cursed family heirloom, and Rasmus had raised the two boys alone.

At the table, Bellatrix looked so delicious Voldemort wanted to get just a little violent. She was wearing a form-fitting satin gown with cap sleeves that hugged her form tightly. She had on opera-length black gloves over which she had on pearl bracelets, and she wore what looked like priceless pearl necklaces. Her black curls were adorned with pearl clasps drawing them back in places. Every now and then, she'd turn round from where she sat, glancing at Voldemort, her lips dark plum, her cat-eye liner black and dramatic. She kept giving him searching sort of looks, like she wanted something, like she wanted him . She was ignoring everything happening at her table. She didn't even seem to care much about her food.

Finally, Voldemort couldn't take it anymore. He held her gaze and murmured a quick, Pardon me, please , and then he pushed himself back from his chair and stalked briskly out of the Malfoys' ballroom until he was out in the corridor. He waited out there, and sure enough, not thirty seconds later, amid the low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery from inside the banquet, Bellatrix emerged.

"My Lord." She walked slowly toward him, her strange, bent wand in her gloved hand like she was going to battle. Her fitted gown would not at all be fit for battle, Voldemort thought distantly. He blinked quickly a few times, and he gulped thickly as she neared him. He loomed over her and allowed himself to touch her jaw with his rough fingertips and to whisper,

"Happy New Year, Bellatrix."

"Happy birthday, My Lord," Bellatrix smiled, and at the sight of that, his stomach twisted strangely. She smelled differently tonight, he registered. She'd worn different perfume. He shut his eyes and breathed her in. Citrus, jasmine, and myrrh, it seemed. A warm aroma for a cold night. He shivered and kept stroking her cheek, and he confessed,

"I can hardly stand the sight of you."

He realised at once that that sounded like he did not want to look at her, and he opened his eyes and immediately ameliorated,

"It is torture, you understand. Sitting in that ballroom, pretending to care about hollow and trivial conversation whilst you are right there and you look like this , and I… Bella, I… I have no regrets whatsoever about what I did to you yesterday."

She just smiled peacefully up at him and nodded. "My Lord, I enjoyed it very much. I find I can't care anymore what sort of witch it makes me that I enjoyed it as much as I did. I would do it again and again, or some variation of it. I just… I crave you like I'm a wicked addict. I feel helpless. I'm sorry."

"Do not apologise." Voldemort swallowed and just stared down at her. "Neither you nor I have any need, nor any intention, I should think, of resisting our impulses. I am the Dark Lord, and you are my most loyal and willing lieutenant, the one for which my mind and body have an appetite. That it is reciprocal is more than a little convenient. Is he quite angry?"

Bellatrix just stared, a bit confused, and then she blinked. "Rodolphus, you mean, My Lord?"

He scoffed. "Yes. Rodolphus. Your husband. Was he angry with the way I fucked you on a table in front of him and everyone else yesterday?"

Bellatrix grinned playfully, reaching up to drag her fingers over Voldemort's in a way that sent a shock up his spine. "He didn't say much about it when we got home, My Lord. I think he knew much better than to do so. I think he's completely terrified. Today he asked me how I'd like my eggs at breakfast and which robes he ought to wear to the banquet."

Voldemort laughed a little and nodded. "A fine young man. Knows his place."

"Indeed." Bellatrix smiled. Voldemort sighed, looking her up and down, and he reminded her softly,

"It is my birthday."

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, My Lord. I know. Happy birthday, once again."

He squared his jaw. "Stay tonight. Here, in my apartments. To celebrate my birthday with me."

She looked very surprised, but she just nodded a little and seemed to be trying to stifle a broad grin.

"Of course, My Lord. If that pleases you, then… of course, Master."

Voldemort licked his lips and glanced toward the ballroom. "You go first, I suppose."

She nodded and then dipped respectfully. It almost hurt when she pulled away and started to scurry back toward the party. She was around ten paces away when Voldemort called,

"Bella."

She whirled round, and he said firmly to her,

"I am not finished with it. With the idea of pleasing myself in front of people because of you."

She smiled and tipped her head up, and she nodded. "I look forward to helping you achieve all your plans, My Lord."

"Good girl," he said, and he watched her disappear back into the party.