"Lucius." Lord Voldemort sat in the large, elegant leather chair at his enormous desk in his office and watched as the silver-haired teenage boy came walking cautiously through the room. Lucius looked around a bit anxiously; he'd only been in this space a few times in the last few years since Voldemort had moved into Malfoy Manor. Surely Lucius had come into this office as a child; Voldemort knew that Lucius' grandfather Neptunus Malfoy had used the room as a personal office before dying of haemorrhage after being bitten by a Pontianak in Singapore.

Now Lucius eyed the impressive custom fireplace of Sienna and Jasper marble, in which enormous flames licked the blackened brick flue. His pale blue gaze drifted around the bust of Agatha Chubb surrounded by Bludgers cast in bronze, the detailed tapestry of the Battle of Coagh from the Giant's Uprising of the 15th Century, and the crystal vases of deep red roses, all enchanted to appear fresh forever. He seemed mildly fascinated by the Dark Lord's office as he approached the stout desk, and when invited, he took a seat in the smaller chair designated for Lord Voldemort's guests. As he sank into the chair, Lucius tipped his chin up just a little with aristocratic pomposity and then politely noted,

"My Lord, what a marvellous collar you've got on today. It is quite impressive; is it new?"

Voldemort reached up to touch at the heavy collar strung round his shoulders and in front of his collarbone. It was a weighty piece constructed of pewter, raw emeralds, and onyx. Very evidently bespoke for the Dark Lord, it would be obvious to anyone who saw the piece that it had cost it a veritable fortune. Voldemort smirked as he brushed his fingers around the raw emeralds and then informed Lucius breezily,

"It was a birthday gift. From Bellatrix Lestrange… and Rodolphus."

"Oh!" Lucius smiled, though his expression twisted just a little into a grimace he did not seem to be able to resist. He gulped and nodded. "Well. It's quite elegant, My Lord."

Voldemort chuckled. "They are both loyal servants and demonstrate their servitude accordingly. As do your parents by hosting me in this manor. I trust that you, too, Lucius, have aspirations of serving me steadfastly. I have been assured as much by your father."

Lucius' head bobbed then, and the boy's pale eyes sparkled as he said eagerly, "Y-Yes, My Lord. Quite so! Cissy and I were just discussing the matter on New Year's Eve, as it happens, in a private conversation before the banquet. We were discussing, you know, what we hope to do as a couple once we're married. How we both aim to devote ourselves to you, My Lord, and to your cause."

Voldemort drummed his fingers on his desk and tipped his head. "Well. That is good to hear. Though, I confess, I fear Narcissa Black is a bit too delicate a flower to throw herself headlong into the war the way her elder sister has done. Bella's proclivity for violence is not matched in her younger sister's blood, I do not think."

Lucius hesitated, gnawing his lip, and then offered, "I do hope - believe - Master, that Cissy could offer you a great deal, in her own way. And I can promise you that she is already ferociously loyal."

Voldemort quirked up his lips and nodded. "Yes. Bella's said the same. Don't worry, Lucius; the two of you will both have your respective roles. My expectation of you is that you will take your place among my most elite Death Eaters as a soldier with the courage and competence befitting you as the heir of the Malfoy clan. Have you the devotedness to assure me that I can count on you?"

Lucius looked awed for a split second before answering, his mouth hanging open rather inelegantly, as though he were a somewhat disoriented fish. Voldemort tossed up an eyebrow expectantly, and finally Lucius cleared his throat and nodded, bowing his head and saying in a low murmur,

"Of course, My Lord. I look forward to the day I raise my wand in battle to help eradicate your enemies. And when I marry Narcissa, she and I will both dedicate our lives wholly to serving you to the best of our abilities. This I do promise you."

"Good." Voldemort pinched his lips into a straight line and picked up his wand, toying with the handle a bit as he began to feel bored with this meeting. He'd said everything he needed to say; Lucius was still just a boy and was not yet actually a full-fledged serving member of Voldemort's fold. So he just sighed and gave Lucius a conciliatory little nod and said, "I believe you and I are quite in accord, then. If you continue to demonstrate I can have confidence in you, I shall grant you and Narcissa your Marks upon your leaving Hogwarts. You may go."

Lucius' pale, angular face broke out into a broad grin, and he bowed his head again reverently as he said in a low but clearly quite happy voice, "My Lord. Thank you."

He rose from the chair then and hurried to go, seeming not to want to overstay his welcome. Voldemort kept fingering his own bony yew wand, watching Lucius open and shut the office door, and once the boy had gone, Voldemort's eyes flicked to the face of the clock near the fireplace. He frowned. That meeting had not taken very long at all. He had well over an hour before he meant to summon his small tactical group for the luncheon planning meeting he was holding today. He chewed his lip and huffed a breath, irritated with himself for his poor planning. He was going to be bored and anxious between now and then, he thought.

He could read the Daily Prophet again, he considered distantly. But he'd already read it once today, and there hadn't really been anything interesting, because he and his Death Eaters had somewhat 'taken a break' over the Christmas holidays, and there had been something of a lull, nearly a truce, over the last ten days or so. That was to end very soon, of course; today's meeting was intended on plotting an attack in Manchester that would wipe out three Mudblood enemies rather violently. That would be splattered all over the Prophet in due time. But for now, the front-page news had been about how an elderly witch in Godric's Hollow had been sent on an emergency basis to St Mungo's when her neighbours' New Year's Eve fireworks display had gone terribly wrong and had lit her house aflame. Apparently, the witch had suffered burns necessitating treatment in hospital, and her house had been crisped nearly beyond repair. It was quite a disaster, the newspaper wailed. Well, Voldemort did not really care about a fireworks accident in Godric's Hollow, and, anyway, he'd already read the banal 'news.' He'd even dusted his eyes over all the advertisements for the shops in Diagon Alley he was now far too famous to visit. He'd read a gossip column about how it was rumoured that Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black were engaged. Naturally, the Prophet found it juicy that two of the wizarding world's wealthiest families had betrothed their children in an arranged match where everyone said the youths were madly in love. So, no, Voldemort didn't want to read the newspaper again. He was already bored with it.

He sighed as he looked around his office, pursing his lips. He could call the meeting early, he supposed. Lunch be damned. He could just hold the meeting and eat lunch himself later. But he scowled at the thought of that, because he'd planned lunch very much with Bellatrix in mind. He knew that she enjoyed Salade Lyonnaise. He knew because he'd been with her at Rasmus Lestrange's country house one time, over a year earlier, for her father-in-law's fortieth birthday, and Salade Lyonnaise had been served. Voldemort had been happy enough with the dish - escarole, frisée, bacon lardons, poached egg, and croutons with a mustard vinaigrette - but Bellatrix had practically moaned in pleasure when she'd been served the salad, declaring that it was among her favourite foods.

So Voldemort had instructed Dobby to prepare Salade Lyonnaise for the meeting today, along with Ultraterrana, an imported wizarding Italian soda flavoured with orange and grapefruit and herbs. He meant to pamper her, for some reason. He didn't know why; he wanted to give her nice things to eat and drink and then plot murder with her. There would be others at the meeting, of course. And that was part of the entire plan, wasn't it? Voldemort meant to sit at the head of the table today and let himself get hard looking at Bellatrix, let himself grip the edge of the table and let his mind go mad for her, let his balls draw up and empty themselves as sticky come pumped out of his cock and filled up his trousers and made a mess. He meant to moan just a tiny bit, just enough for Bellatrix to notice. She'd see his pink cheekbones. She'd notice his quick breathing. She would give him a shy little smile as she finished eating her Salade Lyonnaise. She might look a little flustered herself, Voldemort thought. Perhaps it would make her hot-blooded; perhaps she'd be sitting there soaked between her own legs, helpless and aroused.

He let out a shaking breath now, feeling just a little desperate, like he'd made a very silly decision in spacing out Lucius' meeting so far before the planned logistical lunch. He shut his eyes and gripped his wand tightly, trying to convince himself not to summon her now. He could wait, he tried to convince himself. He could walk over to his bookshelf and pick up a text on… oh, did it even matter? Vampires. The legendary broom race from Aberdeen to Rome between Torquil McTavish and Silvio Astolfi in 1754. Hell, Voldemort had a children's book of rhymes about cats as precious familiars. Anything. He could go pluck any book off the shelf and spend his time reading that instead of bringing Bellatrix here before the meeting. He did not need to see her immediately. It was as he'd told her; he needed to limit himself to drinking her in in sips, to absorbing her in small amounts, or else he'd accidentally partake in a dangerous overdose.

But he behaved like the very worst of addicts then, ignoring his own logical internal advice and yanking back the wool sleeve of his simple robe so roughly he almost tore the fabric. He growled under his breath and jabbed the tip of his wand against his left inner forearm. His heart picked up as he tried one final time to convince himself to just wait and bring her with the rest of them, but then he decided he did not want to wait, that he wanted to see her right now. He finally just licked his lips and shut his eyes, imagining only Bellatrix's face in his mind.

It was important, when summoning a single Death Eater, to picture them and them alone, and so now Voldemort found himself seeing Bellatrix's wide brown eyes, her full flushed lips, and suddenly he realised that he was imagining her face in the throes of her nearing climax, whilst she was on her back on the sofa in his chambers. She was beneath him, and his fingers were buried between her legs, and she kept moaning desperately, My Lord. Now his wand started to shake against his forearm as he finally muttered,

" Morsmordre. "

He let out a quivering breath then and set down his wand, and he drummed his fingertips on his desk. He heaved himself out of his chair and went over to his inlaid wood bar cart, upon which he'd put one of the expensive bottles of De Clare firewhisky from the Black family. He uncorked it and poured himself a few fingers of amber liquid into a cut glass tumbler, knowing it would take Bellatrix a few minutes to get here. He'd summoned her much earlier than she'd been expecting; she could have been in the middle of doing anything. And, anyway, it would take a good little bit for her to arrive all the way to his office from her home in London. So he walked over to stand in front of the dancing flames in the magnificent fireplace, and he took a small sip of the De Clare firewhisky, letting it incinerate his throat.

He blinked a few times and just stared into the fire before him, wondering how long it was going to take Bellatrix to get here. He ought not to have called her early, he scolded himself internally. He was becoming a stupid fool for her. The night before, he'd been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way he'd awakened to find her nude beside him, and he'd wound up rock hard. He'd snarled in frustration and had heaved himself from bed, going into his brass-piped shower and standing under hot water and using his hand to quickly relieve the pent-up tension in his cock from thinking of her. He'd watched his seed wash down the drain and had stood there panting, feeling idiotic under the stream of the water.

I must take you in morsels, Voldemort had told Bellatrix. You are a delicacy for me to savour, or else we shall both become hideously distracted during wartime. And we mustn't have that.

Well, he thought now, he was not doing a very good job of savouring her in small morsels. She was very distracting.

He was jolted from his meditative trance after another long, silent moment by the sound of knocking on his office door. Voldemort turned and frowned deeply, because the knocking was so gentle, almost hesitant, that he hardly perceived it. He sipped again from his De Clare firewhisky and then called out,

"Do come in."

The door creaked open, and Bellatrix walked in with slow, tentative steps. Her face - her beautiful porcelain face - was almost entirely hidden by the large hood of her heavy velvet winter cloak, and she said nothing at all as she quietly shut the door behind her and then walked toward the fireplace where Voldemort stood. Once she reached him, she curtsied politely, her face bowed, and she murmured,

"My Lord. Forgive me for taking so long to get here; I had thought the meeting was taking place -"

"Are you all right?" Voldemort rather snapped that at her, because he could tell immediately that she'd been crying. He could hear the uncharacteristic thickness and hoarseness in her voice, and he felt a quiver go up his spine when she did not answer his question. He reached to tip her chin up, scowling deeply when he saw that her snowy skin was blotched scarlet, the remnants of an obvious emotional outburst. Bellatrix looked exceedingly embarrassed, her still-wet eyes turning away from Voldemort as she reached up with a trembling knuckle to swipe away a half-shed tear. She shook her head a little and insisted in a whisper,

"I'm perfectly fine, Master. Honestly. It's my own fault; I pushed it all too far."

"What on Earth does that mean?" Voldemort's voice was still sharp and cold to his own ear, though his fingers moved to more gently cradle Bellatrix's cheek. She leaned against his touch, seemingly on instinct, and she shut her eyes for a moment before she hummed,

"Yesterday, My Lord, when I came home in the Transfigured dress you'd made for me, Rodolphus was… well, he wasn't really able to keep pretending he was all right with everything."

Voldemort squared his jaw and huffed a breath. He tightened his hand around his tumbler of firewhisky and hissed, "That boy will know his place as my servant, or he will be on the receiving end of some very painful Curses."

Bellatrix nodded against his hand, her eyes still shut. "I told him as much, My Lord. He called me a loathsome, shameful little slut and then yanked my wand out of my hand. He shoved me into my bedchamber and locked the door. I didn't have my wand, so I couldn't get out all day, and I -"

"He did WHAT?" Voldemort watched Bellatrix practically leap out of her skin at the way he'd exploded at what she'd said, but he hadn't been able to help himself. He'd grabbed her shoulders, just a bit too roughly, and he'd shaken her a little. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and helpless, her mouth falling open, and she stammered,

"P-Please, My Lord, don't kill him for it; I betrayed him and made him jealous, and he simply couldn't take it, so I -"

"He locked you in your bedchamber." Voldemort snarled the words like raging tiger, and Bellatrix hesitated for a very long moment, until at last she shut her mouth and finally nodded.

"The House-Elf finally let me out, My Lord," she said quietly, "Once Rodolphus had gone to bed. I was calling through the door, and the little creature took pity on its mistress. They are good for something every once in a while, I suppose. Anyway. It brought me my wand and opened the door. Fed me a late dinner. All morning today, Rodolphus and I have been arguing ferociously about it."

"Let me see." Voldemort squeezed at her shoulders until she yelped a little. " Legilimens."

He went careening into her mind at once, crashing through her consciousness and pawing past useless memories as they whirled by in a blurry, too-colourful stream. Quickly, though, with Bellatrix's help, Voldemort found what he was looking for. A scene from scarcely a half hour ago was thrust forth urgently inside Bellatrix's head.

Bellatrix paced restlessly in the downstairs sitting room, clad in a simple black crushed velvet dress, her hair barely combed. Her face was puffy and blotched crimson, with tracks of salt from dried tears and lines of water from new ones.

"Rodolphus, I have told you," she snarled, panting a little, "I did not choose any of this. I did not choose to feel for our master what I do. I certainly did not choose for him to… you know, to lust over me. And even if I possessed the leverage to tell him 'no' in any fashion - which, as you know veyr well, I absolutely do not - I am not certain I could. I am sorry. I do not know what to tell you. You need to -"

"Know my place. Yes." Rodolphus sneered the words from where he leaned against the wall, studying his fingernails and looking almost bored. "Yes, I must 'know my place' whilst our master makes a foolish cuckold of me by fucking you in front of all the other Death Eaters. Was I honestly meant to believe you were being punished, Bellatrix? I know there was no meeting. You would never in a thousand years forget a meeting with him."

Bellatrix scoffed loudly. "Are you calling him a liar? Be very careful, Rodolphus; he will see this in my head, and you'll -"

"I am not calling him a liar." Rodolphus stood up straight and narrowed his eyes at Bellatrix. "I am simply saying that I think the Dark Lord carefully orchestrated an opportunity to fuck my wife in front of me for his pleasure. Which, of course, is his right because he is who he is. And, yes, I suppose I have to sit here and take it. But I do not have to enjoy it."

Bellatrix growled through her clenched teeth and turned to stalk out of the room, but Rodolphus called, "Where the blazes do you suppose you are going?"

She whirled around and stamped her foot. "I am not going to stay here and let you take my wand from me and lock me up again because you are jealous and peurile! You horrid man!"

Suddenly she gasped and clutched at her left forearm, and Rodolphus scowled at her as she peeled back the sleeve of her dress to see that her Dark Mark had flushed pitch black. She seemed confused, and she mumbled in a baffled sort of voice,

"The meeting isn't meant to happen until…"

"Well, if he's summoned you, you need to go at once," snapped Rodolphus, sounding irritated. Bellatrix looked up at him and demanded,

"Is yours not…?"

"No." Rodolphus crossed his arms. "Go."

Bellatrix pulled down her sleeve again and just turned to yank her heavy cloak off of the hook near the door, and without saying another word to Rodolphus, she Disapparated from her foyer.

Voldemort tried to be as delicate as he could in extricating himself from Bellatrix's mind then, because he himself felt queasy enough for the both of them. He just stood there, staring down at her, and he found himself almost vibrating with rage. He was not surprised, of course, that Rodolphus Lestrange had become pathologically envious of the way Voldemort had begun being intimate with the other wizard's wife. Nor was he surprised by the way Rodolphus had been humiliated by the stunt of the public 'punishment' during the Death Eaters' meeting.

Still, it was as Bellatrix had tried telling the man. Rodolphus simply was not entitled to be angry. He was nothing more than a factotum in this war. He was a minion. A slave. Chattel, eternally bound to Voldemort by a promise to serve him without question. Even Bellatrix was so much more than her own husband; she was by far Voldemort's most able and qualified soldier, his most loyal and devoted acolyte, his consecrated ally, and now something of an inamorata. Rodolphus Lestrange had precisely no right to feel righteous indignation toward Lord Voldemort, who was so much more charismatic and powerful, who had duly earned his place atop wizarding Britain through grit, talent, intelligence, intimidation, and determination.

Rodolphus Lestrange needed to know his place or he would know pain or death.

And the idea of Bellatrix having her wand physically wrenched out of her hand - not even granted the dignity of being magically Disarmed - and being shoved into her room by a larger wizard and being locked into the space until she was freed by her lowly House-Elf, was so enraging that Voldemort thought he might just storm out of his office and start shredding portraits in the corridors and blowing out windows. Instead, he chugged down his expensive De Clare firewhisky and slammed his empty tumbler onto the mantle of the marble fireplace, and then he cradled Bellatrix's cheeks in his hands. She stared up at him in silence, her head still ensconced by the heavy hood of her cloak, and she searched his face, very evidently trying to figure what he was thinking. Voldemort dragged the pads of his thumbs under Bellatrix's eyes and said seriously to her,

"I mean to show that stupid boy just who he is, and who I am. And I mean to demonstrate to him that you are his wife only insofar as you are still burdened by his surname. But I also mean to show him, very plainly indeed, that I've claimed every bit of you. You are my servant and my soldier, and now you are my mistress, as well. And he shall accept that with good humour, or he will be on the receiving end of my Killing Curse."

Bellatrix seemed to steel herself then. She reached up and peeled down her heavy hood. She nodded and looked utterly fascinated, and she noted in one low, simple word,

"Mistress."

Voldemort squared his jaw. He swallowed past the rather thick knot in his throat and tipped his head. "Something like that. Have you some objection, Bella?"

She tipped her chin up, her face still cradled in his hands. "None at all, My Lord."

"Good." He bent down and touched his lips to hers, and then he murmured onto her mouth, "How dare that ridiculous child take your wand from you and lock you into a room? Doesn't he realise you are a supremely powerful warrior with the capacity to destroy him as revenge for such a reckless misdeed?"

Bellatrix's breath started to become quick and shallow at that, and she said nothing in response, seeming a bit taken aback by Voldemort's words. He smirked just a little, his anger still very strong but his longing for Bellatrix starting to boil up even more strongly. He used one hand work at the ties near her neck until her cloak fell open and then crumpled off her shoulders and collapsed onto the floor in a crush. Voldemort found himself drawing Bellatrix toward him and backing himself up, away from the fireplace and toward the large, heirloom dragonhide armchair a few strides behind him. He collapsed down onto the cushion seat of the chair and yanked Bellatrix down onto his lap, and she hurried to hike her crushed velvet skirt up so she could scramble onto him, to straddle him.

"Bella." Voldemort grunted then, seizing her waist and dragging her near until she was flush up against him, until her breasts were compressed against the planes of his chest and her twiggy leg had mashed themselves between his broad thighs and the chair. She began to breathe harder, sounding just a little bit desperate, and she pulled back to stare at Voldemort with round, glittering dark eyes and parted lips. Voldemort's cock was flushing so hard he could scarcely take it; the pulse and throb of it was hot and imperative, and suddenly his hips bucked up against her of their own accord. She moaned a little at that, rolling her own pelvis down onto him and tipping her head back until her wild black curls tumbled like an onyx waterfall. That was an alluring sight, so Voldemort reached up to toy with the ringlets, twining them round his calloused fingertips and wondering whether he ought to bury himself into Bellatrix right now. He should fuck her, he thought, here in this chair.

"I want you to go into that meeting with my seed leaking down your thigh."

But then he watched her face go very deeply red, and she looked utterly humiliated, and she admitted in an almost angry voice,

"I'm… I'm bleeding, My Lord."

He gave her a confounded sort of expression then, his hands stilling on her hair, and he narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you'd taken a sterilisation potion and that you wouldn't bleed."

Bellatrix huffed. "I do apologise for the inconvenience, My Lord. It's not, erm… it only happens very occasionally. Irregularly. Only once a year or so. It's most unfortunate timing; I could probably… I don't know; I could try to -"

"Nonsense. It's nothing." Voldemort chomped his lip. "I had only hoped to further disgrace the impudent boy by stamping you with proof of my claim. That is all."

Bellatrix touched Voldemort's chest with little brushes of her thin fingertips, and he shivered just a bit at the feel of that. He gave her a solemn look as she moved her hands up to his jaw, which was daring and bold of her in a way he did not mind at all. His cock still ached badly for attention, and he knew she felt that, because she shifted atop his lap and let out a shaky breath. Then she whispered,

"There are many ways for you to mark me before that meeting, My Lord, indelibly, so that Rodolphus may make no mistake at all about everyone's respective positions."

Voldemort smirked just a little and tipped his head. "Hmm. Do tell. I am open to all suggestions of marking you. You know I enjoy marking you up."

To emphasise his point, he reached for her left arm and reached under her sleeve, pulling his thumb around her inner forearm. Bellatrix shivered so badly then that it was like she was outside in the January chill without a scrap of clothing on. Voldemort chuckled under his breath, and Bellatrix smiled a bit in return. Her face shifted then into a dark, suggestive sort of look, and she whispered,

"You could, My Lord, suckle upon my neck so that my husband knew you'd been just a bit aggressive with your kisses here in this office. He saw my neck before I left home, and he'll see me at the meeting. Seeing me covered in red marks and bruises from my lord and master makes quite a statement, don't you agree? It's a way of declaring, beyond equivocation, that my body is yours to handle, not his."

Voldemort felt a surge of satisfaction at that, at the idea of leaving contusions all over her for Rodolphus to see. He flicked his eyes around the way her voluminous curls were falling about her shoulders, and suddenly he had an idea. He cleared his throat and held up his right hand, Nonverbally and Wandlessly Conjuring a length of black ribbon. Bellatrix smirked just a bit; she knew what he meant to do. She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail for him, and Voldemort felt just a little breathless then as he reached around her to bind her hair with the ribbon, tying it tightly and knotting it. He maintained eye contact with her and then murmured,

"Come here."

She nodded, still quite red-cheeked, and whispered, "Yes, Master."

She leaned forward then, her hands going downward until she'd taken hold of his biceps. She had a habit of doing that, Voldemort thought. She tended to cling to his upper arms, like he was flotsam in a tempest-torn sea. He did not mind that one bit. He quite liked it, as it happened; it made him feel more masculine than usual, and more than a little desired. He was hardly wont to complain about the way Bellatrix seemed to need him physically, the way her craving for him had transcended a helpless, girlish crush and had evolved into a savage sort of starvation. No. He was not complaining about that at all.

He used his strong jaw to push her face aside as she leaned closer to him, and as he breathed in and smelled the spice of pepper melding with rose, her perfume filling his nostrils, he let out a low noise from the bottom of his chest and heard himself murmur into her ear,

"That bloody fucking fool, Bella. Ignorant little child."

"Rodolphus, you mean, My Lord," she managed breathlessly, and he pressed his lips to her neck as his left hand started to stroke up and down her ribcage.

"Mmm." He cupped her breast in his other hand and lapped at the skin of her neck with a long stroke of his tongue, and when she rolled her hips a little, he huffed and felt his cock twitch and grow a little. He knew his breath was hot on her skin then as he whispered, "The brainless, short-sighted, envious, entitled, insolent little cunt. Yes. Rodolphus."

Bellatrix giggled quietly, and Voldemort felt his breath hitch at the sound of her gentle amusement. They were both enjoying this just a little too much, he thought - mocking her husband now - but they needed to do so. Rodolphus had been arrogant; he'd been disrespectful toward Voldemort. He'd been out of line by acting so offended at having been cuckolded by the Dark Lord himself. Calling Bellatrix of all people a slut, ripping her wand from her hand, locking her in her room, badmouthing Voldemort behind his back…

No, Voldemort thought furiously. It was entirely too much. Rodolphus deserved every ounce of mockery, every whisper of humiliation, every threat from his master, every sense that he'd lost his wife.

Voldemort's hands moved on their own up to cradle Bellatrix's face. He needed to hold her carefully right now, for some reason. It felt good, in a way Voldemort could not precisely describe, to thread his fingers carefully around her jaw and brace her whilst he began to more assertively kiss her neck, whilst his other hand massaged the back of her neck. He knew, distantly, that he was being too soft with her right now, at least with his hands. He was being almost intimate ; he was caressing her, as if his hands sought to soothe. Perhaps they did. She'd been grossly mistreated by her imbecile of a husband. Was it the very worst thing if the master she served so loyally in combat and in every other demonstrable way used his hands to soothe away that idiocy?

Voldemort was aware, suddenly, that his own mouth had started to work much more aggressively on Bellatrix's neck without him realising he'd done so. She was moaning much more loudly than she'd been doing before, and she was swaying atop him, grinding down onto his hard cock with such enthusiasm that he found himself dizzy, growling onto her neck. He abruptly realised that his lips were drawing whole mouthfuls of Bellatrix's flesh between his teeth, sucking hard, yanking at the skin, biting down, abusing the skin almost as hard as he could.

"Oh! Oh! My Lord! My Lord…" Bellatrix's voice was a low, desperate whine now. She keened for him, her small fingers sinking deeply into his biceps for purchase. She kept riding his erection, rubbing herself on him in rolling movements that were becoming a bit erratic. She was trembling from head to foot, and her voice was starting to shake a little, and soon enough, her voice was little more than a choked wordless sound. As Voldemort's mouth moved quickly to the other side of her neck and started attacking her there, she gasped and collapsed limply forward against him, and her hips stopped cycling. She didn't moan much at all after that; she just whimpered as though in mild pain, and it occurred to Voldemort that perhaps she'd climaxed from grinding so hard onto his hard cock.

The thought of that was entirely too much. He screwed his own eyes shut and he wrenched Bellatrix down hard onto his lap, yanking her against him as she burrowed her face into the crook of his neck. He tipped his head back against the dragonhide armchair and heard his voice mumble, in a somewhat embarrassing sort of tone,

"Oh. Bella."

It only got worse then, because, very much against his will, he spent the surging wonder of his climax with his hand stroking between Bellatrix's heaving shoulders. It wasn't until he'd come down from his high of his orgasm, when clarity set in and he blinked his eyes open, that he realised he was sitting in the chair with Bellatrix as close to him as it was possible for a human being to be, with his breeches soaked with come, with his hand gently caressing her back.

He put his lips into a flat line, his cheeks going hot with fresh mortification, and he let his hand fall from Bellatrix's back. He considered demanding she get off of him. He considered snapping sharply at her that they'd proven their point for Rodolphus, that they were making fools of each other right now, that this was absolutely ridiculous.

But he didn't do that, because he quite liked what it felt like to have her nestled against him like this, to have her body as close as it was right now, to feel the warmth of her against him. She made no effort whatsoever to move. They just sat there, the both of them recovering, and for some reason Voldemort wasn't even cross about the fact that there was a mess in his breeches. He could clean it up in a few minutes, he thought.

"I'll summon the others soon," he murmured eventually, and then he sniffed and added carefully, "I've arranged Salade Lyonnaise for lunch."

Bellatrix finally pulled back just a little bit, looking almost exhausted, but profoundly happy, the way she looked after a particularly ferocious battle. Voldemort's breath caught then, because he could see at last how her neck was covered in angry florid welts and bruises that were already flushing purple. He reached up to brush a knuckle over the nastiest-looking wound he'd given her, and when she shuddered, he curled up his lips and said approvingly,

"Well. No denying that your master has spent the time since summoning you being more than a little indecent."

She sucked in air hard then and seemed to be trying to suppress a very broad smile, and at last she whispered,

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Bella, is the salad to your liking?" Voldemort took a forkful of his own food, a bite full of bacon, frisee, and a bit of poached egg. He cocked up an eyebrow expectantly at Bellatrix, who was seated just to his right, at the seat of honour, in the Malfoys' dining room. She was quite contentedly eating her own salad, and she flashed him a very happy smile as she nodded and assured him,

"It's delicious, My Lord. I can't believe you remembered that it's my favourite."

He gave her a very flirtatious look, pursing his lips as he chewed his bite. He washed down his food with a sip of imported soda, and as he set down his goblet, dragging his fingertip around the rim somewhat playfully, he teased her,

"I remember everything you've ever told me, Bella. The good and the bad. You ought to be careful what you say to me; I don't forget any of it. It's all stored away in here in case I need to bring any of it out at any time."

He tapped his temple with his forefinger, and Bellatrix giggled as she brought her linen napkin to her lips, dabbing delicately. She nodded and tipped her head, as if to show off to the others who had been called to the strategic meeting the myriad garish marks Voldemort had put all over her just before they'd all been summoned. She poked at her salad and complained jocularly,

"If only I could gorge myself like a fiend, My Lord. I would eat three of these salads if I could. I'm practically addicted to the combination of poached eggs and bacon lardons."

Voldemort gave her a sardonic look and clucked his tongue. "As I believe I told you not so ver long ago, Bella, your form is… what did I call it? Ah, yes… celestial . And you've a habit of denying yourself food; I had to feed you after the New Year's banquet. I'm hardly going to complain if you treat yourself to an extra salad every now and then."

She laughed again then, quite good-naturedly, and she nodded. "Quite so, My Lord."

Beside her, Rodolphus' face had started out the colour of a tomato and had deepened to the purple of an aubergine. He looked lost between an existential crisis of realising his wife was no longer his own, drowning in his envy, and feeling dangerous anger toward Bellatrix and Lord Voldemort. Rabastan Lestrange just looked terrified; he clearly sympathised with his brother's plight, but the wizard knew far better than to question Voldemort.

As for the others, Abraxas in particular, they all seemed more than a little uncomfortable and mildly confused. Voldemort bounced from mind to mind with brief little pokes of Legilimency that they wouldn't notice, and he perceived that they all realised now that the supposed 'punishment' that had taken place at the Death Eaters' meeting had probably been a staged excuse for public sex between master and servant. None of them seemed to know how to feel about that, although, unlike Rodolphus, none of them would ever dare gossip about it aloud, much less question the Dark Lord to his face on the matter or name-call Bellatrix about it. If anything, the whole literal affair seemed to make them all feel just a little intimidated, because Bellatrix was already known to be a terrifyingly vicious and remarkably competent combat heroine. Voldemort saw the fleeting notion in a few minds that if the Dark Lord's most brutal, able, devoted Death Eater had become his paramour, the rest of them had been automatically demoted and needed to stay in line if they were to stay in good graces. Bellatrix, it seemed quite clear to them all, was the undisputed Favourite, and perhaps rightly so.

Well, fine, Voldemort thought. Let them all think that. It was true enough, wasn't it? He had no problem with them all being a little frightened of her, of Bellatrix, not only because of her battlefield prowess, but because she sat at the right hand of the Dark Lord and had nearer access to him in every way than the others, because he'd stolen her away from her husband. Let them all register a bit of unease from that.

Once everyone had finished their salads and the plates had been cleared by Dobby, Voldemort sniffed lightly and cleared his throat, and he began to speak firmly from the head of the table. He used a completely different tone than he'd used earlier, during the meal, when he'd been flirting with Bellatrix. It was time to talk business now, and he was Lord Voldemort, and these were his Death Eaters. He wasn't teasing his mistress now. This was war strategy. Let his Death Eaters be perfectly clear who he was - the rightful leader of wizarding Britain who happened to have claimed his young, lovely, female fighter.

"Turn your attention to the parchments I gave you all at the beginning of this meeting," Voldemort said in a low snap, and those he'd called immediately picked up the papers beside them. Bellatrix's face was stony and serious as she reached for her memorandum, but as Voldemort flicked his eyes to her, he could not help observing how stained her neck, mottled with furious red marks and increasingly darkening purple bruises. He cleared his throat and continued,

"We will all be going to Manchester on the seventh of January. This will be a coordinated attack to simultaneously eliminate three Mudblood Ministry employees known to be feeding information to Dumbledore. The three we are attacking are scattered through the city; therefore, we will be taking it in teams."

Rabastan Lestrange cautiously raised his hand, and Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow and nodded. Rabastan asked in a low, quiet voice,

"My Lord, it says here that Lonnie Richardson, whom Rodolphus and Abraxas and I are meant to attack, is the parent of four children. Their ages are not specified. Do we know if they will be present in the home, and if they are, are we meant to eliminate them?"

Voldemort sighed and rolled his eyes. He shrugged. "Rookwood got me the best information he could. If you need to know the ages of the children you're going to kill, Rabastan, by all means, send an owl of inquiry to Rookwood. And, yes, all inhabitants of a home are to be eradicated. I presume a group of three masked Death Eaters will be able to take out one family, including some unarmed children."

Rabastan looked embarrassed. "Yes, My Lord. Of course, My Lord."

"Good," said Voldemort in a clip. He turned his face to Yaxley. "Any questions from the team that will be taking out Mazarine Moreau and her elderly Muggle parents? Surely there are no concerns about the manifest for that household?"

Macnair let out a low chuckle, and Yaxley smiled just a little as he shook his head and said reassuringly, "We'll handle it just fine, My Lord."

"Wonderful." Voldemort turned his eyes to Bellatrix, and then his voice and face softened considerably as he informed her, "You and I will be taking out Bess Pritchard and her husband."

Bellatrix smiled, just a little shyly, and she said with a hint of coquetry, "I eagerly await a good night of murder with you, My Lord. It is my very favourite thing."

"I know." He gave her a sort of affectionate look and just stared for a moment, and then he turned his attention back to the table, tightening his expression back up and making his face stern again. His voice was sharp and angry once more then as he said in a bite, "We will all meet - masked and cloaked - in front of Manchester Cathedral at nine o'clock at night on the seventh. Any confusion on that?"

"No, My Lord," said Bellatrix at once, and he smirked at her as the others affirmed they would be present. He sighed and turned back to those gathered as he said,

"From there, we will break into our teams, take out our targets, set their houses aflame, and Disapparate from the sites of our kills. Once you've completed your tasks, cast the Dark Mark into the sky. When you reach safety, ward up your location tightly and immediately send me an owl notifying me of the success of your mission. We will then meet here, at Malfoy Manor, at ten o'clock on the eighth to debrief the overall ambush. Questions?"

The dining room was silent. Voldemort tossed his hands up and tipped his head. He scoffed quietly and said,

"I shall take the lack of interrogative curiosity as a sign of supreme confidence and competence. Serve me well, all of you. I shall see you on the seventh in Manchester. Dismissed."

He watched then as those assembled rose, bowing respectfully before filtering from the meeting room. Rabastan Lestrange seemed to make a point of hurrying out of the space, but Rodolphus and Bellatrix were the last two in the room aside from Voldemort. He pursed his lips as they neared the door, and then he called out,

"Bella."

She whirled around, and so did Rodolphus, looking utterly abashed. Voldemort kept his eyes trained on Bellatrix's, and he said in a light, airy tone,

"Go home, lovely creature, and pack yourself a bag with some clothes and toiletries and everything. Then come back here. I don't want you in a house where a silly little boy, driven mad with jealousy and undeserved possessiveness, steals your wand from you and locks you up. No. You'll be staying with me for a while. Hm?"

Bellatrix looked awed, but she finally smiled a little and nodded, then curtsied as she murmured,

"Yes, My Lord. I'll pack a bag and come back here."

Voldemort might have known what Rodolphus' face looked like in response to the admonition, but he refused to even look at the boy. Instead, he just held up one hand and beckoned to Bellatrix with a finger, and she silently came trotting towards him. He reached up and cradled her face in his hand, bringing her down until he could kiss her rather firmly on the lips. She seemed a little surprised, but when she pulled back, Voldemort just stared at her, dragging a knuckle along her jaw, and he kept his eyes locked on hers as he said quite firmly,

"Rodolphus Lestrange, if I ever hear again that you have so much as laid a finger upon this witch, I will Vanish your eyeballs and your teeth and your tongue, use Severing Charms to dismember and disembowel you, subject you to a nearly endless series of Cruciatus Curses, and then I will cast a Killing Curse upon you. Do not ever wound Bellatrix again; if you do so, you commit a crime directly against me. Do I make myself perfectly clear, boy?"

His fingers kept stroking Bellatrix's jaw, and she just stared at him like he was the most amazing thing she'd ever seen in her life. From a few paces away, Voldemort heard Rodolphus clear his throat, and then at last, Rodolphus mumbled in a low, dejected voice,

"Yes, My Lord. It is all extraordinarily clear, and I do know my place. I vow to serve you forever as a loyal Death Eater, Master, and I know very well that, erm… that Bellatrix is yours."

"Good man," Voldemort nodded, pulling his knuckle down around her neck, around the marks he'd put there. She shut her eyes and smiled just a little. Voldemort finally said, "Go home, the both of you. Bella, come back to me."

"Yes, Master," she whispered, and she pulled away from him.