November 1971

Of all the things Lord Voldemort had envisioned developing a habit of doing regularly, climaxing in public was not one of them.

The first time had been a complete and total accident. Voldemort had taken four of his Death Eaters to Heathersage in the Peak District in search of Caspian Waterhouse, an ally of Dumbledore. They'd found the wizard, along with his wife and grown son. There had been a skirmish, fought bitterly in a frigid downpour, during which the wife and son had been quickly exterminated. Then Voldemort had watched, open-mouthed with pleasure as cold rain had cascaded over him, as Bellatrix Lestrange had stood holding a vicious Cruciatus Curse on Caspian Waterhouse. She'd giggled maniacally and then flashed Voldemort a gorgeous, triumphant grin, her wild hair soaked by the rain, her black dress clinging to her thin figure.

She'd looked almost intolerably, painfully attractive, and blood had streamed into Voldemort's cock, rushing it through and making it hard as stone. He'd managed not to grasp at his erection, to just stand there watching her, feeling a bit stupid as he heard the others Vanishing the corpses of Waterhouse's wife and son and burning down their house. He'd just stood there, useless, beholding Bellatrix's tenacious cruelty, and his cock had grown until it ached, had throbbed and pulsed with need . He'd shut his eyes for a moment and had struggled to breathe, feeling dizzy and almost queasy with arousal. His abdomen had tightened and his balls had drawn up, and as his head had spun, control had cycled away from him.

And then he'd felt it.

His seed, leaking from his member, making a mess beneath his rain-soaked robes as he gasped and let out a choked, helpless noise into the night.

He always wore fitted breeches beneath his bespoke outer robes, so at least no one could see the fact that he'd made a disaster of himself. Still, he'd hurried to cast Nonverbal spells to Siphon and Scour up the emission, feeling his cheeks go hot with confused humiliation where he stood.

That had been the first time.

It took him a week to fully process that he hadn't fully minded it, that there had been something strangely erotic about it all. It took him a week to realise that standing there and just looking at her, at Bellatrix specifically, and letting the sight of her make him hard, make him come, had felt absolutely delicious. He was not at all wont to deny himself the sensation again, he thought. His breeches and his robes would always hide the mess. He could always Nonverbally - or even Wandlessly - clean up after himself.

He could do whatever he wanted. He was Lord Voldemort. If he wanted to come all over himself because he found Bellatrix attractive, that was his prerogative. He didn't have to ask anyone's permission. He didn't have to inform anyone. In fact, the idea of doing it, of using Bellatrix's beauty and figure in various settings to drive himself to completion, without anyone's dispensation, was positively delicious.

At an assembly of his Death Eaters two weeks later in Malfoy Manor, Lord Voldemort carefully reserved the seat just to his right, and when Bellatrix Lestrange entered the meeting room with her husband, he gestured somewhat to the empty chair and smirked at her until she meekly sat down. She flashed him a little smile and bowed her head respectfully, and as the others filtered into the room and murmured among themselves in quiet conversations, Voldemort allowed himself to study Bellatrix closely.

She'd come to this meeting in an off-the-shoulder blouse of simple black cotton, which somewhat provocatively bared her swanlike neck, her collarbone, and the slight swell above her little breasts. Why she'd dressed like this, when the November chill outside was so cutting, Voldemort didn't know. He certainly was not complaining. His eyes coursed hungrily over her milky flesh, taking in the feminine softness of her contrasted with her angles and lines.

He just stared at Bellatrix, ignoring the rest of his followers, as she turned her face away from him and listened to her brother-in-law Rabastan beside her. Rabastan was speaking softly about something, going on and on incessantly, and Bellatrix was just nodding politely to him. Voldemort reached down beneath the Malfoy's enormous, sturdy table with his right hand and grazed his fingers over his lap. After a moment, he let his hand clutch at his steadily hardening cock, and he stroked it a few times through the material of his robes. His breath shook in his nostrils a little, and he licked his lips, and he just stared at Bellatrix.

Then, in his mind, a wild vision flashed. He thought about fucking her, about seizing her here in front of everyone, in front of her husband. She would like it, Voldemort thought. She seemed voraciously devoted to him a way that not even his other female followers were. Not Abraxas' wife. Not her own mother Druella. Not any of the witches who had known him when he'd been the handsome young Tom Riddle, in fact. Bellatrix Black Lestrange, his twenty-year-old lieutenant, gave him occasional flirtatious little looks but was also a fiery fighter with the body of a goddess, and Voldemort wanted to fuck her.

He wanted to do it on this meeting table, with her splayed facedown on the wood, her palms desperately pressing, fingers curling, her voice crying out as he pounded her roughly from behind. He wanted to thrash into her so hard the table shifted, heavy as it was. He wanted all of his Death Eaters to watch him fuck her, for her to scream as she endured an almost inhuman climax from the Master she adored. He wanted to fill her up and then take a step back and watch his come leak down her thigh. He wanted to stroke her backside and purr, Good girl, Bella to her, in front of everyone, in front of her husband, in front of -

He felt it again then, very unexpectedly, and he gasped and blinked rapidly in shock and alarm at how quickly it had happened. His fantasy had run away from him. His body had run away from him. Voldemort wrenched his eyes shut where he sat in the Malfoy Manor, surrounded by the low drone of his Death Eaters waiting for him to begin the meeting. He felt come pumping from his cock, felt it soaking the wool trousers he wore beneath his bespoke robes. He gripped the edge of the heavy table, his knuckles aching as he tried to stay quiet. He attempted to steady his breathing as his ears rang, as his face went as hot as flame. His veins surged with a brief but very intense sense of pleasure that faded into blissful satisfaction, and he heard himself let out a soft but distinct little noise that he could not contain.

"My Lord?" asked a quiet, feminine voice, and Voldemort forced his eyes open and glared at Bellatrix. She was staring at him, her dark eyes wide and concerned. Her full lips parted, as if she were frightened to intervene at all, but finally she wondered, "Are you quite all right, My Lord?"

He just nodded, quickly and silently. He turned his lips up into a reassuring expression and told her, "I'm perfectly fine. Let us begin."

He rushed to Wandlessly and Nonverbally clean up the mess he'd made in his clothes, and then he called the meeting to order. The entire rest of the time they were there, he was distracted, unable to remove his focus from how good it had felt to think of Bellatrix the way he'd done, and how good it had felt to lose control of himself in a way he so rarely did. Yet, he had maintained control, because he'd experienced pleasure without asking anyone's permission, and without anyone even knowing. Wasn't that supremely powerful, in its own odd way?

Bellatrix kept flashing him little looks throughout the rest of the meeting, as though she were still worried about him. She fretted over him sometimes, Voldemort knew. Sometimes, in a skirmish or in a larger fight, she'd see him duelling and she'd come sprinting to his aid. She didn't quite understand how ferociously talented he was in combat. She certainly didn't comprehend the fact that, with his Horcruxes, he was almost unbeatable in warfare. She ought to worry about herself. Voldemort had told her that, more than once, sometimes in a gruff and grumpy tone. He would be furious if he lost her as a soldier because she'd been fussing over him like a mother hen. But he knew that she only worried about him because of her obsession… her adoration. And even today, she kept looking at him with furrowed brows and parted lips because he'd been panting with squeezed-shut eyes before the meeting, so she was concerned.

After everyone had gone, he held her back, and once they were alone in the meeting room, Voldemort spun his pale yew wand nonchalantly around his fingertips, leaning on the table with his left hand, and shrugged.

"I don't want you worrying, Bella; I'm perfectly fine," he insisted quietly, just like he'd done before. Bellatrix's cheeks coloured, and she nodded.

"Of course, My Lord," she said, and then Voldemort tipped his head and narrowed his eyes, feeling irritated. He squared his jaw, because he knew damn well she suspected something. He cleared his throat and turned his gaze away from her, and he mumbled,

"You are my favourite Death Eater, Bella; I should like to spare you the indignity of rifling through your mind with Legilimency, but…"

Bellatrix sighed, and she finally said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "It seemed, My Lord, if I may speak plainly…"

"Do speak plainly," he commanded her, returning his eyes to hers. She shrank back a little, in obvious fear, and something compelled him then to stop toying with his wand and to stand up from where he was leaning onto the table. He reached for her face, cupping her jaw in his left hand, and Bellatrix seemed very surprised at that. She gnawed her lip for a moment, and finally, she admitted, in a hurried, low voice,

"It seemed, My Lord, as though… before the meeting… erm, you were… well, I thought at first perhaps you were unwell, but then it was almost like you were…" Her eyes fluttered shut, and her cheeks went scarlet, her skin going warm beneath Voldemort's palm. His breath quickened in his lungs, his heart picking up speed. Bellatrix finally whispered, "Like you finding a release. There, at the table. Erm… on your own. I'm sorry. I'll gladly take my punishment now."

Voldemort scoffed softly and shook his head. He dragged a thumb under Bellatrix's eye. He ought to be embarrassed, perhaps. He ought to Obliviate her for figuring out his little secret, or to toss her against the wall with a spell and hurt her for disrespecting him. But instead, he just sighed and demanded,

"Look at me, Bellatrix."

She did, and the moment she opened her eyes, Voldemort's breath hitched. His mind rushed through again with the vision that had driven him to his climax, the idea of bending her over the table in this room and fucking her senseless. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip and shook his head a little.

"You're dismissed for today," he finally told her, lowering his hand from her cheek. She looked terrified, as though receiving no punishment from him was somehow worse than simply being sent away. Perhaps, he considered, she worried that he would ignore her, or that she would fall from his favour for this. That was probably her absolute worst nightmare. To reassure her, he managed to flash her a little smile that he knew did not reach his eyes, and he admitted, "I do like… erm… I quite enjoy it when you show your shoulders, Bella."

Her mouth fell open in surprise at that, and she quickly glanced down to survey her own revealing neckline. Her thin fingers flew up to her collarbone, touching a bit self-consciously, and then she looked up to Lord Voldemort. Suddenly, her beautiful face was painted with realisation, and she nodded a few times. She bowed her head and murmured,

"Right. Bare shoulders in future for you, My Lord."

"Good girl," he whispered, his veins igniting a bit, a fresh stirring of want going through him as he thought that that was what he'd imagined purring to her after plundering her on the table. He gulped and dismissed her for good then.

She was obedient, but then she was always obedient, and that was one of the things Voldemort liked very best about Bellatrix.

Her mother's family, the Rosiers, were hosting this year's Christmas ball for Voldemort's inner circle. It was tightly warded up at Rosier Castle; the place was surrounded by trained guards and the grounds were impenetrable. Still, Voldemort had commanded that no one become profoundly drunk in case an ambush took place. Three glasses of wine or one tumbler of firewhisky maximum, he'd insisted, lest they face his wrath.

Some of the more musically-inclined Pureblood offspring who were home from Hogwarts had been pressured by their parents into entertaining the crowd by singing traditional carols every now and then; people would applaud them politely. Then the enchanted viol da gamba and recorder and drum and the other festive instruments would take over, and there was merry dancing whilst people ate heavy wintry savoury foods and indulged in sweets.

Voldemort spent an hour mingling, as he was wont to do at these events. He just nodded and listened as people tried to convince him of how very effective they personally were in their own work, how much they could contribute - financially or otherwise - to his ever-burgeoning movement. He would grasp wizards' forearms and touch witches' shoulders politely and smile a bit at everyone, wishing them a Happy Christmas. That was how these events always worked. He thanked Rosier and his wife for hosting in their grand, if ancient and rather dreary, castle. He pretended to be interested in their two young sons, Evan and Felix, who were frankly rather obnoxiously sprinting about the ballroom.

And then, finally, he was able to pay attention to her, to Bellatrix, who had come with Rodolphus. Unlike most wives here, she was not clinging to her husband. Voldemort knew she was not so desperately attached to Rodolphus as other wives were to the wizards they wed; she'd married Rodolphus largely because it had been what she'd been told to do. She stood near him, though, and every time Voldemort's eyes touched her form, that fact itched his mind with irritation.

But she was obedient, because she had come to the Christmas ball clad in a mouthwatering gown that revealed so much of her flesh that people were talking about her.

She looks stunning.

Her father must be furious. Her husband must be enraged!

I think it's gorgeous, but I could never pull it off... I've neither the body nor the confidence.

I think she looks like a common harlot.

Rodolphus must have fought her on it, Voldemort thought. He almost went into her mind, curious to see with Legilimency if there had been an argument at home over a dress like this. But he didn't; he gave her privacy about it. He just ogled her, like everyone else was doing.

Her gown was made of watery black silk that seemed to be of the highest quality. A strapless creation, the dress appeared to be clinging for dear life to Bellatrix's small but shapely bust, seeming like if she dared twist her torso the wrong way, her breasts would reveal themselves to everyone present. There were very low off-the-shoulder details that seemed to tease and taunt, thick straps of black silk that wrapped around her toned biceps. The gown hugged her narrow waist and then flared out into a beautiful A-line skirt that moved like a black ocean wave whenever she took a step. And when she did take a step, the dress revealed her entire right leg, for there was a slit in the skirt going nearly to the waist of the gown.

She'd very evidently styled her black curls, usually wild and untamed, with quite a bit of Sleekeazy's, and she'd brought them over one shoulder in an elegant style fastened with a glittering diamond clip. Her brown eyes were darkly lined with kohl, and her lips shone with glossy red lipstick. She was almost terrifyingly beautiful, and people were talking about her.

And she was obedient, because Voldemort had told her that he liked to see her shoulders. She'd seen straight through him, somehow, weeks earlier; she'd figured out that he liked to see her flesh, that he liked to look at her, to enjoy the sight of her. He'd touched her face, and perhaps she'd heard his breath quicken when he'd done it.

Right now, standing in the Rosier ballroom, staring at her, he felt blood surging between his legs, and he was profoundly grateful for his choice of dress robes. He could have opted for overly fitted tuxedo robes like some wizards had chosen, but instead, he'd had a stylish bespoke set made recently. He was wearing black wool breeches with thigh-high dragonhide boots shined to perfection. He also had a crisp white dress shirt and a blackcurrant tie, and over it all, he had an elegant knee-length velvet dress robe in deep green velvet that both allowed freedom of movement and also did a rather convenient job of concealing things. So even though right this moment he could feel himself going hard, he knew no one else could see, that it was hidden by layers of wool and velvet. He just cleared his throat and, rather determinedly, started walking across the ballroom.

"Oh! My Lord," said a voice, and Voldemort huffed with irritation as he turned to attend to the person who had said his name. He realised it was Abraxas Malfoy, whom he could not exactly ignore. He forced a pleasant look of acknowledgement, and Abraxas swayed a little where he stood as he happily informed Voldemort, "My Lord! Cygnus and I… we are both so elated to inform you, My Lord, that our children Lucius and Narcissa are to be wed! As soon as they leave Hogwarts. They're madly in love, and it's a wonderful match, and -"

"You are drunk." Voldemort's voice was a harsh bite. Abraxas shrank back a little, glancing at the glass of firewhisky in his hand. He shrugged and admitted,

"I did get a bit carried away in celebrating, My Lord. I do sincerely apologise. I know what you said. I'm really very sorry."

Voldemort rolled his eyes. He glanced over to Bellatrix again, feasting on the sight of her for a moment. Someone had walked up to her, some old Bulstrode witch, and the two of them were speaking animatedly. Voldemort was absolutely starving for her, and he scratched at his jaw as he decided he simply couldn't be troubled with Abraxas violating his rules. He wouldn't have his own fun spoilt tonight with a disobedient Death Eater. So he just straightened his back and turned to Abraxas, saying rather quickly,

"My sincere congratulations on the engagement. I know it will be a happy, lifelong union between the two of them. It is not just a good match; it is a perfect match. I am elated for everyone involved. What merry news on such a festive night. It pleases me greatly. Now. No more drinking, Abraxas."

"My Lord." Abraxas nodded frantically and bowed deeply. Voldemort plucked the tumbler of firewhisky from his hand and Wandlessly Vanished it, and he continued walking on the path he'd been on before. He finally reached Bellatrix and the old witch, realising it was one of her much older distant Bulstrode relatives whose first name he could not recall. Somewhat out of desperation, when the two of them curtsied to him to acknowledge him, he just said,

"Happy Christmas, Madam Bulstrode. I hope you are well."

"Yes, My Lord," trilled the old woman. Her face softened a little; she seemed to realise Voldemort didn't quite know exactly who she was. "My son Hadrian serves you from inside the Ministry; he's in the Department of -"

"International Magical Co-Operation. Of course," Voldemort said smoothly, as though he'd known all along. "A very fine wizard, your son. Again, Happy Christmas. Bella, I wonder if I might have a dance?"

She looked completely shocked then, both at the fact that he'd asked her to dance and at the way he'd called her Bella outside the confines of a Death Eater meeting or a battlefield. But Bellatrix gathered her wits quickly and turned to the older witch, flashing her a little smile and saying,

"Happy Christmas, Cousin Dilys."

Dilys Bulstrode waved goodbye as Bellatrix cautiously placed her trembling fingertips on Voldemort's velvet sleeve. He led her slowly to the area in front of the instruments that were playing a festive four-step carol, where around a dozen couples were dancing beneath silver and maroon banners and evergreens. Voldemort brought his palm up, and Bellatrix reached up to meet his touch. He realised at once that he needed to lower his hand for her; she was much shorter than him. He smirked a little at that, and she grinned broadly as she said,

"I'm sorry, My Lord; I scarcely reach your shoulder."

That stirred something within him, seeing and hearing her flirt like that. He gulped, and blood flushed anew between his legs. He let himself absorb the feel of it, the feel of his cock going hard again, as his eyes coursed around Bellatrix's body and his hand pressed against hers. He started to guide Bellatrix around in a circle to the slow beat of the carol being played, guiding his left hand to her waist, feeling watery silk there. Her own free hand touched at the chest of his velvet robes, and as she stared up at him, wide-eyed, and turned slowly with him, she murmured softly,

"Have I pleased you, My Lord?"

He just nodded, his eyes dragging from the dark curls she'd pulled over one shoulder to her neck and her decolletage, over her collarbone, her bare shoulders, the soft upper swell of her breasts, her thin arms… he took a very deep breath, and her fingers cinched a little on his robe as they finished their turn and reached their starting position. Voldemort managed, through his fog of want, to guide Bellatrix in four slow steps to their right. A sharp sort of tingle shot from his neck straight down his spine, need spiking through him, and he found himself informing Bellatrix,

"Everyone at this party has been talking about you. About that rather scandalous dress and the way you look in it."

Bellatrix lowered her eyes coyly and quirked up her lips. She moved back with Voldemort in slow sideways steps toward their starting position, and as she did, the slit in her skirt revealed her slim, shapely leg. Voldemort let his eyes feast upon her then, let his gaze course from her thigh all the way down to the foot that was ensconced in a delicate black satin shoe. He felt his hand tighten at her waist, and his cock ached within the breeches he wore beneath his bespoke dress robe. He huffed a little breath, feeling his right hand shake a bit where his palm pressed against Bellatrix's. She finally asked him quietly,

"Were they all calling me a harlot, My Lord? The people gossiping about my dress?"

"A few of them," Voldemort replied, just a bit playfully. He started to turn her in a slow circle again, and when she raised her eyes to him, her smile widened a little. She looked wicked then, and he was breathless suddenly. He had fantasised about fucking her at the meeting weeks earlier. He'd lost himself on the battlefield watching her in the throes of torturing an enemy. Now, dancing with her, suddenly he wanted to seize her face and kiss her.

It took everything he had to keep dancing with her. His cock was as hard as granite. And it only got worse when Bellatrix pursed her shining ruby lips and said, just loudly enough for Voldemort to hear,

"That's what Rodolphus said. Before we left home… that I looked like a harlot, and that everyone would say so. I told him that I didn't care. I wasn't dressing for the opinions of Pureblood witches, or to censor myself from the lascivious gazes of elderly wizards. That is what I told him, My Lord."

Voldemort's breath shook in his nostrils, and he felt dizzy as he forced himself to take four steps to his left. He almost stumbled, discombobulated with desire, but he steadied himself and gripped Bellatrix's waist so tightly he thought he must be hurting her. He was meant to be pressing his palm flat against hers for this dance, but suddenly he felt his fingers twine through hers, and she let it happen. A look of realisation came over her face, just as had happened when she'd been alone with him in the meeting room at Malfoy Manor. He finally asked her, his voice a bit stilted and choked,

"Why did you dress like this tonight, Bella?"

She gave him a very serious look then as they returned to their starting position. The instruments finished off the carol, but Voldemort simply could not find it in himself to take his hands off Bellatrix. The next song began, and this one was a simple two-step. He moved them into a basic stance and started to sway with her, and as they moved, Bellatrix said to him,

"I chose a dress, My Lord, that showed my shoulders, and my neck, and as much of the rest of me as I could reasonably manage, because I wanted you to be…" She shut her eyes for a moment and then finally whispered, "It's for you, of course, My Lord. Everything I do is for you."

He felt it then, much more suddenly and unexpectedly than he could have possibly anticipated. He gasped, because it happened so abruptly that it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him.

His cock had been hard, had been pulsating with want for her, throughout the entire last dance, but this sudden overwhelming completion had hit him like a sack of bricks in the face. Of course he knew full well that she'd come dressed the way she had just for him. But hearing her say it, watching her shut her eyes and tell him that everything she did was for him… it had shoved him headlong over the edge instantaneously. He'd been so helpless against it that it had been like a bomb detonating without notice.

And so his feet stopped dancing, because he simply couldn't continue, as he stood there and came inside his breeches. He kept his eyes open, somehow, and because he'd gasped and choked out a little groan, Bellatrix's eyes had flown back open, as well. He just stood there, staring at her, gripping her waist, holding her hand, and she gazed up at him in slack-jawed wonder. All the while, his cock pumped out his completion into his breeches, making a hidden mess. His ears rang loudly and his veins seared as his heart raced.

He struggled for breath for a long moment once the first wave of intense pleasure started to fade into a dull and dizzying sense of satisfaction. But then Voldemort was hit with an abrupt sense of clarity, and the awareness that Bellatrix had watched him do it, that she'd stood before him and had witnessed it. If she'd questioned what had happened at the meeting at Malfoy Manor, there could be no doubt now. She was not stupid.

Voldemort cleared his throat softly and took his hands off of her, taking a half step back and feeling his cheeks flush so hot he knew they must be the colour of a tomato. He tried to be as surreptitious and covert as he could as he lowered his hands to the front of his deep green velvet dress robe and cast Nonverbal, Wandless spells to Siphon and Scour up the sticky ejaculate he could feel against his thighs and pelvic area. Once he felt that he'd gone dry and clean, he licked his bottom lip and eyed Bellatrix.

She'd pressed her lips together, but if he'd expected her to dash away in terror or to act as mortified as he felt, she surprised him by not doing so at all. Instead, she just gave him a pleasant little look and asked him, somewhat gently,

"Would you care for some wine, My Lord? I find I am a little thirsty."

His mouth fell open, surprised that that was how she would react after what had just happened. He glanced over toward the drinks table, and he finally just nodded numbly. He held out his arm, thinking distantly that since he'd asked Bellatrix to dance, the proper thing to do was to escort her back off the floor.

She gratefully placed her fingers on his sleeve, more confidently this time than when she'd taken his arm near her distant cousin Dilys Bulstrode. Voldemort walked in silence with her through the ballroom until they reached the drinks table, ignoring the people who tried to get his attention. He couldn't be bothered right now; he had neither the patience nor the attention span at the moment to hear about the banalities of someone's Ministry job or a great-great-great uncle who had just died or someone's daughter's Third Year studies at Hogwarts. So he just moved steadfastly through the room with Bellatrix on his arm, and he ignored her husband, too, thinking Rodolphus was probably watching Bellatrix with their Master and very much not caring about that right now. Both the young Lestranges served him.

He plucked two glasses of dry Elf-Made red wine off of the table and handed one of the cut crystal goblets to Bellatrix. She nodded and bowed her head in thanks. She raised her goblet then and said meaningfully,

"A Christmas toast… to the Dark Lord and all his future endeavours. May every battle be a victory."

"May every battle be a victory. Happy Christmas." Voldemort took a sip of his wine, taking a few steps away with her until they'd reached a quieter area near a stained glass window that was cloaked in darkness right now. From here, the party seemed a bit distant, conversations a low buzz, the music a bit hazy. Voldemort let out a very long sigh and leaned against the ancient stone wall of Rosier Castle's ballroom, and he stared down into his goblet of wine, and he finally said in a careful tone,

"I am not a wizard who makes a habit of apologising, Bella, but, erm…"

"There's nothing to apologise for, My Lord," Bellatrix said lightly. "Thank you for the dances. I am so very glad my dress is to your liking."

Voldemort didn't look at her. He just kept staring at his wine. He swirled it in his goblet a little and confessed,

"It was not… deliberate … this time."

There was a rather long beat of silence, and finally, Bellatrix dared to ask,

"Was there a time when it was deliberate, My Lord?"

Now he did raise his eyes to hers, and he shrugged as he admitted, "The meeting at Malfoy Manor. That was very much on purpose. So."

"Ah. Well. I'm only glad to hear you were not in distress," Bellatrix said, smiling a little and sipping from her wine. "I was concerned, a little. But to know it all on purpose… how silly of me to worry over such a thing. I'm sorry."

He wanted to tell her everything then, for some absurd reason. He just stared at her, and it felt like not only the right thing to do, but like something he wanted to do, to tell her everything. He wanted her to know that he'd come in his robes on the battlefield when she'd been rain-soaked, delighting in casting a Cruciatus Curse, that that had been the first time he'd ever lost control unexpectedly because of her. He wanted her to know that he'd set his mind to losing himself in front of all of his Death Eaters after imagining unspeakable things about her, things that still set his mind ablaze if he allowed himself to linger on the idea of them. He wanted her to know that he thought she was bloody brilliant, and beautiful, and powerful, and -

"It's only ever because of you. It only happens when I'm looking at you, when I'm with you."

The words tumbled out from between his lips before he could police them. Abruptly horrified with himself, Voldemort shut his eyes and almost swore out loud. He took a very large sip of wine and tried to steady his breath. He was a damned fool, he thought suddenly, telling her that. But when he managed to open his eyes and stare down at her, feeling more idiotic and outright weak than he'd felt in many years, she just gave him a pacific smile and nodded, almost as if to reassure him that all was perfectly well. She sipped somewhat casually from her own crystal goblet of wine and took a moment to glance toward the party, seeming relaxed, quite at ease.

Voldemort was shocked. Wasn't she going to slap him? Well, no. She didn't have a death wish; she might be offended, but she would never slap Lord Voldemort. Not even for something like this. Fine, then. Wouldn't she just politely excuse herself, thank him again for the dances, and then rush back to Rodolphus? She did not appear to have that in mind. Instead, she hummed along with the familiar carol being sung by the unwilling little choir of Pureblood students home from Hogwarts, and then she turned her beautiful face back to Voldemort. She looked serene as her eyes searched his, and at last, she asked him,

"Have you any other requests, My Lord?"

He was speechless for a moment, until finally, he repeated, his voice hoarse, "Requests?"

She nodded. "You asked for bare shoulders. You said you liked my shoulders bare. And so I try, whenever I can, to bare my shoulders for you. I've tried tonight to dress in a way that pleases you. I should like very much to please you however else I may. Have you any other requests?"

His stomach twined then, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His grip on his cut crystal goblet tightened until he was afraid it would shatter and send wine spluttering everywhere. He managed to say to Bellatrix,

"You really are my favourite, you know. Because of how you fight, with more cruelty and ability than any of the others. And because you are very beautiful, and because… because of things like this. Your loyalty and your devotion and your… compliant nature."

"It is my honour to serve you, My Lord," Bellatrix said, and then she lowered her voice a little and added softly, "and my pleasure."

"Bella." He was breathless again then, and his mind was suddenly filled with the thoughts he'd had about her in Malfoy Manor during the Death Eaters' meeting, the thought of spoiling her body with everyone watching. He gazed into Bellatrix's brown eyes as they seemed to go a little wet, and he heard himself admit to her,

"I don't want you to change anything. I quite like… the point, you see, is that I find myself driven a bit mad by you as it is. On the battlefield, in meetings, dancing with you…"

"On the battlefield?" Bellatrix looked a little confused, and Voldemort rolled his eyes, frustrated with himself. He tossed his free hand up in irritation and finally explained,

"The very first time that I… that this odd phenomenon took place, Bella… it was that skirmish in the Peak District when you had Caspian Waterhouse locked in a Cruciatus Curse. I couldn't take my eyes off of you, and the sight of you like that, a bit frenzied with violence and soaked with rain… I wasn't prepared for it, but…" He trailed off, his cheeks going warm, and he sipped his wine again. Bellatrix just nodded, her face looking a little amazed. Then she smiled a little, seeming almost shy. She touched her knuckles to her lips and turned her face away, and she let out a soft little laugh. Voldemort scowled, a little twinge of humiliation coming over him, and he demanded, "What? What's so funny?"

"Oh, it's just…" Bellatrix hesitated and then admitted, "Erm… it's only that I have always found you to be almost unconscionably handsome whenever I see you in combat, too, My Lord. I get distracted, sometimes, even. Staring at you. I have to force myself to look away, or I'll get hit with a Curse whilst I'm not paying attention. And, of course, in meetings, I'm a hopeless little idiot. Half the time, I'm hardly able to process what anyone's saying; all I can do is sit there and stare at you like a starry-eyed little girl with a crush. It's pathetic, really. So there you have it, I suppose."

Voldemort's lips parted. "Oh."

He hadn't realised, perhaps, how mutual all of this was. He knew very well that Bellatrix had been far more devoted to him than anyone else for since her Hogwarts days. He knew she'd gladly give her life for him in his war, that she was more committed to his politics than anyone else. He had already taught her Occlumency because he thought her his most competent acolyte. And he had seen the way she stared at him; it had been clear for a while now that she was at least a bit attracted to him. But he had not contemplated the idea that she'd been wholly fixated on him in the way she'd just described.

He sipped more wine.

"In any case," he said, for all of this was beginning to feel like just a bit much at the moment, "I have now made quite the fool of myself in your presence on several occasions, in a manner most unbefitting your Master. I should like to insist definitively that it isn't some laughable fetish, or to reassure you that I do not harbour any untoward attraction for you, Bellatrix, but, erm… well, unfortunately, I think it all speaks a bit for itself. So. I do apologise; it was all wretched. I think I shall go speak to Abraxas now, or… your father, or Avery, or someone. Thank you for the dances. You look beautiful. Happy Christmas."

Suddenly her pretty face crumpled, as if it had registered that she'd been soundly rejected by Voldemort. She finally seemed to snap to attention, and she adjusted her features into a docile, placid expression. She curtsied politely and murmured a Happy Christmas, My Lord as Voldemort started to stride quickly away from her, leaving her in the darkened corner.

He was around ten paces from her when he felt a rip in his chest. He froze and took a shaking breath, and he whirled on his foot, dashing back toward her. Bellatrix stared at him in wide-eyed surprise as he hurried back to her, and when he reached her, she gazed up at him with unmitigated fear. She thought he'd Obliviate her or worse, he knew. He was careful to keep his facial expression and his voice as gentle as he possibly could then as he said quietly, so no one else could possibly hear them,

"As it happens, I do have a request of you."

Bellatrix nodded frantically. "Yes, My Lord. Anything. Anything at all."

He hesitated, but then whispered, "I want to kiss you."

Bellatrix's eyes went visibly wet, rimming red round the edges. She looked around helplessly and choked out, "Here?"

Voldemort scoffed, "No, silly girl. Not here. Come to my office tomorrow. Tell your husband I've Summoned you for a private meeting; he needs no further detail. I want to kiss you. That is my request."

Bellatrix smiled, but she appeared to be trying to stifle a broad, joyous grin. She finally bowed her head and said obediently,

"Until tomorrow, then, My Lord."

He nodded. "Goodnight, Bella."

This time, when he turned away from her, he did not look back.