Lord Voldemort paced in the sitting room of the suite he shared with Bellatrix and stared at the ring he'd been fingering anxiously for ten minutes. He moved over toward the window and, in the dimming evening light, studied the details of the ring closely. It had finally arrived this morning from Rome, care of the experts at Ciondoli di Valore, and it was a masterpiece, as far as Voldemort was concerned. Crafted perfectly in platinum, the band was simple enough, but the decorative part of the ring consisted of six total small very precious Alexandrite stones in a flare, flanking an oval sandstone centre stone. The sandstone was deep blue and opaque and was speckled with white, and it looked precisely like the most vibrant and wondrous night sky. It suited Bellatrix - the warrior - Voldemort thought. It was neither too feminine nor too masculine, neither too delicate nor too husky.

As he stared at the ring in his own grasp, he thought it perfect for her, and so his own heart pounded just a little. He glanced quickly over his shoulder; she was resting in the bedroom. He meant to give it to her this evening at long last. He'd promised it to her in February. That felt like ages ago now. They were much closer, the two of them, than when he'd promised her this ring at the Valentine's Day celebration. He'd desperately wanted to gift it to her then. Now it felt downright essential. He swallowed hard and tucked the ring into the small pocket in his breeches, clearing his throat.

Suddenly there was a small crack , and Dobby the House Elf appeared in the sitting room holding a meticulously set tray full of food. Voldemort huffed a little breath and nodded, jerking his chin toward the bedroom. Bellatrix had been healing from their great victory in the Yorkshire Dales for three days now, and she was horribly restless. She was frustrated, Voldemort knew, with the fact that he was still making her stay in bed. She'd missed the debriefing meeting earlier today, but he'd assured her that he'd had nothing but good things to say to the others about what she'd done to Caradoc Dearborn and Aneirin Shacklebolt. He wanted her bones and joints and her concussion to heal properly, he'd told her rather firmly. She could get up and start moving round again after five days in bed. Those were his orders as his master. She'd begrudgingly obeyed.

She always obeyed. She was very obedient.

Her new wand, selected just for her by Gregorovitch based on a detailed description of her original wand, had been brought quickly after the battle by Abraxas, who had gone on a clandestine trip to Carkitt Market. The new wand was only slightly different from Bellatrix's original one; it was straight and had a demarcated handle, but all the materials were the same. It seemed to work well enough for her, though Voldemort had said he'd wait and see how it functioned in combat, and if it wasn't satisfactory, they'd keep trying until she got one that made her happy again. He knew it had to have crushed her to her spine to see her precious wand go spiralling down into the river and then to have Voldemort Summon it in its irreparable state.

Now Voldemort followed Dobby toward the bedroom to see that Bellatrix was propped up against the pillows in the comfortable blue bed, looking somewhat annoyed at having been there all day. She set aside the book she'd been reading, and she managed to flash Voldemort a respectful little smile and a little bow of her head as she murmured,

"Master."

He was very acutely aware then of the ring in his pocket as Dobby excitedly but carefully arranged Bellatrix's tray of food around her lap, explaining to her that tonight's meal - which Voldemort had already eaten downstairs - consisted of sea trout with black rice and mustard greens. It was an elevated meal; the Malfoys always had fine cuisine. There was a goblet of wine with the food, Voldemort noticed, and he fretted to the elf,

"Is the wine sweet?"

Bellatrix smirked just a little at him, and Dobby suddenly looked terrified. He shirked away into himself as though he feared a beating terribly, and he started to stammer. The little creature knew well that Bellatrix only liked dry wine. Voldemort had his answer. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, brushing his fingers through the air as he said dismissively,

"Take the wine away, Dobby; I'll get her a drink myself."

"Y-Yes, My Lord." Dobby snatched hastily at the goblet and then quickly Vanished it with a quick whip of his natural wandless magic. He scurried off and Disapparated, very evidently still frightened and not willing stay to find out whether any ill will toward him was going to materialise.

Once Dobby had gone, Voldemort wandered back into the sitting room and toward the area where the drinks were kept, and he decided to use some of the last of his De Clare firewhisky. She'd like it, he thought. He poured a few fingers of the stuff into a clean tumbler for Bellatrix and corked the bottle, and then he stalked back into the bedroom. He pulled up the stout wooden chair beside the bed and sank down into it, sighing a little and flicking his eyes up and down Bellatrix's form. She gave him a grateful little look as she took the tumbler of firewhisky from him with the hand whose wounded knuckles had healed well by now.

"I do like the way it burns on the way down, My Lord," she said quietly, and she took a little sip of the liquor. He gave her a crooked smirk of approval and watched in silence for a few moments as she took a few bites of the black rice and the mustard greens on her plate, then cut her fork into the sea trout and nibbled it delicately. She finally took a little drink of firewhisky and flicked her eyes to Voldemort before saying in a bit of a cheeky tone, "My Lord, you know I get so self-conscious when you watch me eat."

"I confess to being somewhat entranced watching you do just about anything. I apologise for causing you discomfort," Voldemort mumbled, and he glanced away. Bellatrix cleared her throat softly in response to that, and then he heard her fork against her plate as she seemed to be hurrying to put a few bites of sea trout and rice into her mouth. Voldemort felt his heart start to accelerate behind his ribs, felt his pulse move from a trot to a gallop in his veins, and his mind started to whirl as he wondered just what she would say when he gave her the ring that had arrived this morning how from Rome. He wondered what she would say when he posited the suggestions to her that he had in mind.

He licked his dry, chapped lips, considering how well things were going in his life in general at the moment. His movement was strong and cohesive. The Ministry and his enemies were frightened in the midst of the chaos and unpredictable madness that Voldemort and his followers were spreading throughout the wizarding world. Seeds of doubt regarding Ministry leadership were growing into shouts demanding change, into rallying cries of support for the Dark Lord. Even the Daily Prophet had been bold enough recently to run stories questioning whether or not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might be best combatted through some degree of appeasement, by granting him some power and authority instead of vilifying him and digging in heels against his values. A good deal of that success was due to Bellatrix, Voldemort thought. He would not have so rapidly succeeded in his campaigns against Muggles and enemies without her combat expertise. His own personal spirits had been buoyed immensely by her in recent months, and as a result, he knew he'd been leading his Death Eaters more effectively and productively. So he was very grateful for Bellatrix… and oddly grateful, as it happened, that silly little Rodolphus had become sick with envy and had become a turncoat so Voldemort had had an excuse to kill the boy and claim Bellatrix for his own.

He glanced back to see that Bellatrix appeared to have finished eating, and she was sipping down the last of the De Clare firewhisky that Voldemort had poured for her. She set her empty tumbler down and gave him a thoughtful little look as she mused,

"You seem troubled, My Lord. Is something the matter?"

"Erm." He pursed his lips and reached to pull the tray from her lap. He thought about setting it aside and having Dobby clear the entire thing later, but then he scowled, thinking that the fish would start to stink soon enough. He decided to wandlessly Vanish the tray and dishes; the Malfoys had a vast surplus of such things. Once he'd cleaned up from dinner, Bellatrix seemed to realise that Voldemort was preparing for some sort of serious conversation, and he watched her reach for the new wand Gregorovitch had made for her. She aimed it at herself and murmured a little Freshening Charm, and Voldemort knew why. She wouldn't want to smell - or taste - like fish and firewhisky if there was something grave or significant being discussed. He shut his eyes, thinking for perhaps the hundredth time that she was a very good and loyal servant and that he was quite fond of her for the way she always seemed to anticipate what he would want of her. He felt her thin fingers reach for his bicep then, curling and compressing a little, and her concerned voice asked gently,

"What's the matter, My Lord?"

He met her gaze again then, studying her porcelain features and wondering whether he ought to spend a few moments kissing her before he delved into any of this, just in case. Somehow, he felt vulnerable right now in a way that did not particularly please him. But he just put his lips into a determined sort of line and reached into the pocket of his breeches beneath his robe, and he pulled out the ring he'd had made for her, and he reached for her hand, sliding the ring wordlessly onto her finger as he said quietly,

"It finally came… this morning. From Rome. I hope you like it."

It was not until after he'd pulled his hands from hers that he realised what he'd done. He'd rather automatically slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, the finger where her wedding rings from Rodolphus had once been. Since February, he'd planned on her wearing this ring on her right hand, for it was always intended on being a mere token of his affection for her, a simple piece of fine jewellery that he'd commissioned as a gift. Nothing more. But now, seeing it on that finger, his breath caught in his throat, and his stomach flipped upside-down, and he could not speak to apologise, or move to amend his error.

Bellatrix stared in stunned silence down at her hand, at the platinum ring with the sparkling Alexandrite stones and the bewitching centre oval of dark blue sandstone that mimicked the night sky. She gasped a little after a while, once she seemed to be able to fill her lungs at last, and then a choked sort of sob escaped her as she clapped her right hand to her mouth. She raised her eyes to Voldemort's, and he saw that hers were rimmed red and brimming with tears. She was searching him, silently questioning him, and he knew why. Had he meant to put the ring on that finger? He opened his mouth, tried to answer, to say something, shrugged a little, and then shut his mouth after deciding he looked like a foolish fish. Bellatrix sighed shakily and spent a very long moment just examining her left hand before she finally whispered in a voice that trembled precipitously,

"It is truly an exquisite creation, Master, and I am… I am so very grateful for it. Thank you."

Voldemort finally managed to swallow past the thick knot in his throat just enough to ask her hoarsely, "So you do like it, then?"

Bellatrix stared at him and nodded, and then she assured him tearfully, "Very much."

"Mmm." He reached for her left hand and contemplated, as he dragged his thumb around the finger where he'd put the ring, that they had not yet addressed the significance of the piece or its placement. Perhaps they would not delve more deeply into the matter tonight; Bellatrix always seemed adept at knowing when to leave things well enough alone. She had not, for example, asked again about what Voldemort had said to her when he'd been covered in Belphoebe Moore's blood and he'd confessed to her that he'd worried terribly about her potential death. She'd not asked what he'd meant about his internal contemplation on that, about keeping her mortal. She knew nothing of his Horcruxes, or his secret wish that she make one so that he would not lose her. But she'd not pressed him on his macabre introspection, and she did not ask him now why he had put her ring on the finger where a wizard would normally put an engagement ring. No. Bellatrix Black knew better than to push or demand answers of her master.

She was always very obedient, he noted yet again. His very best acolyte.

"Bella," Voldemort said, and for some reason he felt queasy now, for he'd come to the point of this conversation he'd been dreading most of all. His fingers twitched against hers, and she eyed him with a mix of curiosity and concern as he tried to steady his mind and his stomach. He gnawed his lip for a moment and then finally stared straight into her watery dark eyes and said in a bit of a rush,

"I spoke with Abraxas about this earlier. After the… the debriefing meeting. He and Flavia have been more than hospitable to me for quite some time, and I should like to keep my office and meeting headquarters here, but, as for you I, I should like to suggest that we… that we…"

Bellatrix's lips parted, and her chestnut eyes went wide and then flashed a little. She could tell he was struggling badly with this, he knew, and suddenly she nodded quickly and murmured,

"Noosa, my House Elf in London, has ensured that all of the traitor's belongings are long gone from the place, My Lord. All trace of him is gone. It is a very fine house that my parents bought for me a few years ago, when I left Hogwarts. I think you'll like it well enough. I hope you will. Of course, any redecorating that you may wish to do is -"

"I'm sure it's perfectly fine, if you were responsible for choosing the furnishings," Voldemort mumbled. He lowered his eyes, for a strange feeling had come over him then, and his chest yanked oddly. He let out a long, slow sight and shut his eyes for a moment before he admitted out loud, not for the first time, "I did not intend for the admittedly lurid and hedonistic physical play between us to evolve into something quite as significant as it very clearly has, Bellatrix. It was all just a game at first, just a way for me to indulge the odd kink I'd developed toward you and to allow me to find satisfaction with you because I was attracted you. But here we are… I am deeply in love with you, my greatest warrior and, I should think, my fondest ally and the only person whose loss would pierce my soul like a knife blade. I…"

He paused then, licking his lips again and struggling to find the right words to finish off what precisely he meant. He took a moment to caress her left hand, to study the sight of the platinum ring and the deep blue sandstone on her slender fourth finger, and all of a sudden he did not regret placing it there as he said very quietly,

"I wish to live alone with you in London. The Malfoys have been generous and hospitable, but I do not wish to continue boarding here with you as my mistress. I wish for a private life with you, set aside from my work, which will remain here. You'll fight for me, of course; you'll serve me as my very best Death Eater. But you are much more than a kept witch, you understand."

He flicked up his eyes to see that there were tears streaming down her cheeks silently and that she was quivering just a little where she sat. She was gazing at him with awe in her wide brown eyes, and though she said nothing at all, the sheer admiration it was evident she bore him rolled off her in waves that washed straight over Voldemort like medicine. He swallowed hard and asked her then,

"You do not object, then, to wearing my gift on your hand, or to living with me in your London house?"

Bellatrix shook her head furiously, using her right wrist to swipe at her tear-streaked cheeks as she sniffed and choked out,

"There could be no greater honour, My Lord. No greater joy. If you knew half the love I bear you…"

"I know twice the love you bear me, I think." Voldemort said simply. He finally just curled up his lips a little and reached to stroke at Bellatrix's curls, and he suggested, "As soon as I've cleared you and deemed you fully recovered from your battle wounds, I shall have all of our things moved to London, then. You look tired. You've been intransigent about not sleeping. End your protest and get some rest."

Bellatrix quirked up half her mouth and then bowed her head respectfully. "Yes, My Lord."

It really was a very nice house.

Upon Bellatrix's graduation from Hogwarts and her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange - a marriage that, to Voldemort, was null and void and no longer mattered - Cygnus and Druella Black had purchased for their daughter and son-in-law a six bedroom Georgian townhome in Belgravia. It was sandwiched between an elderly, moneyed couple of Averys and some fabulously wealthy Greengrasses. The rest of the street were Muggles.

The townhouse that Bellatrix had been gifted when she'd been eighteen and freshly bound to the traitor had a glossy black door that opened into a long entrance hallway with bright white walls and crisp marble floors. Every room was more impressive than the next, from the dining room with its elegant mahogany furniture and light blue rug and curtains to the main parlour with its buttery yellow walls and luxurious cream sofas and travertine fireplace. There was an entire storey devoted to guest bedrooms, which made Voldemort chuckle as neither he nor Bellatrix had any intention of ever entertaining overnight guests at this house.

The level with the two main bedrooms looked out upon the small but tidy back garden with its rose bushes and little trees that were just growing their leaves. Bellatrix rather triumphantly showed off her own bedroom to Voldemort first; it was a luxe space with a dark, low bed and grey walls with red velvet bedding and curtains. She had a boudoir space to ready herself, and her bathroom had a large copper tub and a pipe shower that was more spacious than the one she'd been sharing with Voldemort at Malfoy Manor.

Feeling admittedly impressed, Voldemort moved across the corridor with her into the other master bedroom, and then he felt strange, for he knew full well that this room had belonged to Rodolphus Lestrange. He paused just inside the threshold and squared his jaw, blinking a few times as he glanced around the bedroom, which had been outfitted in very masculine shades of tan and brown. He scowled a little, narrowing his eyes and huffing a breath as he contemplated the boy's treachery, the way Rodolphus had grown feeble with envy and had turned his back on every meaningful promise he had ever made in his pitiful life. He thought of how he'd wanted Bellatrix to watch him tear out Rodolphus' teeth and slice the boy apart and let him almost bleed to death before killing him, how he'd wanted to slowly revel in the traitor's agony before exterminating him, but how he'd lost his patience and his temper and had simply cast a Killing Curse on Rodolphus. He thought of how the months that had followed the betrayal had consisted of a concerted effort to turn the war effort around, and of where everyone stood now.

Of where everyone stood now.

"As I said, My Lord, you must redecorate to your taste," said Bellatrix earnestly from beside him, and Voldemort snapped his attention down to her and smiled weakly as he shook his head and insisted,

"There is precisely nothing wrong with the room, Bella. Anyway, I am not a man of impressive taste when it comes to interior design."

She gazed up at him for a moment and then finally nodded. Then she did something that surprised him a little - she sank slowly down onto her knees. At first, he questioned why she seemed to be initiating oral sex with him unprovoked in the middle of a house tour, but it almost instantly made sense, and he felt himself flushing hard as soon as he realised what she was doing, the good girl that she was. She was helping him claim this room, claim this house, claim her … all of which Rodolphus Lestrange had been able to say was his, when he'd been alive. But that traitorous boy was dead now, and in an act of spitting on the creature's grave, Bellatrix would pleasure her master whilst wearing his new ring for her on the day he moved into this home.

Yes, his cock went rigid as he processed the idea of all that.

"Bella." His fingers nestled into Bellatrix's soft, dark curls, cinching on her scalp, and he looked around the room and started taking in the details of the room - his own new bedroom - as he felt her working to free him from his breeches. He grunted softly as he felt her tug the breeches down a little and gently extract his hardening cock, and when the warm, wet perfection of her mouth gripped him, he seethed through clenched teeth and struggled not to let his knees buckle. He choked out a little noise and looked from thing to thing in the room. The bed was sturdy wrought iron with dark brown brocade bedding and cream sheets. The curtains on the two windows flanking the bed matched the bed - cream sheers and brown brocade.

A hiss and a groan escaped him then as he felt his tip being suckled just so and his orbs being weighed in one hand. His pelvis bucked forth on instinct and his hands wrenched a little at Bellatrix's hair. She moaned onto his cock like a tart, sounding like she was devouring a gourmet dessert as she toyed with him in her mouth. Voldemort chomped his lip and suddenly tasted blood, and he felt dizzy for a moment as Bellatrix unexpectly took a great length of Voldemort's shaft down her throat and started making gulping motions, her oesophagus gripping at him like she meant to swallow his cock whole.

"Fuck! Bella… Bella!" He sounded unhinged, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. She was driving him mad. He struggled, through vision gone blurry with arousal, to observe the dark wood wardrobe in the far corner and matching side tables, the elegant Turkish rug in shades of brown, black, and cream on the wooden floor, and the door that led into an adjoining bathroom that he could see was all black and white marble. It was quite a nice bedroom, he thought, this bedroom that was his .

All of a sudden his balls had drawn up very tightly and his stomach had coiled, and with Bellatrix's throat still swallowing insistently, tugging at his tip in the best way imaginable, he completely lost himself. He nearly fell to the ground from the force of the burst, and he knew the sound he let out was too loud, too urgent. If Bellatrix disliked the taste of his come, she gave absolutely no indication; she moaned and continued stroking quickly with her right fist behind her mouth as he pumped his satisfaction straight into her mouth. She seemed happy enough to drink it all down as Voldemort felt his ears ring and his mind whirl, as his heart thunked and unfathomable pleasure detonated and then very slowly fizzled.

Eventually, when at great long last he'd caught his breath, feeling sweaty and dizzy and sated, he watched as Bellatrix let his softening cock slip most of the way from her mouth. His tip was still sitting on her swollen, pearlescent bottom lip as she stared up at him and murmured very deliberately,

"This home and everything in it are part of Wizarding Britain, My Lord. And every single thing in Wizarding Britain belongs to you. I belong to you most of all. I hope you know that's true."

She kissed the tip of his cock very affectionately, and Voldemort shivered. He watched her carefully tuck him back into his underwear and breeches and button him back up, and she stayed kneeling on the ground, staring up at him as if waiting for permission to stand again. Voldemort looked around the room once more and cleared his throat, and then he reached down and took Bellatrix's left hand in his right one, pulling gently at her without a word until she moved on legs sore from kneeling and stood to gaze at him obediently.

"My violent little beauty," he whispered, knowing he'd called her that before, and she curled up her lips in response. He sighed a little, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ear, and he tipped his head as he admitted, more to himself than to her, "I would be desolate without you."

"I am right here with you, My Lord," Bellatrix said, looking a little confused, but he pursed his lips and recalled what his mind had shrieked at him when he'd feared so badly for her in battle, when he'd found her motionless on the bank of the River Twiss.

You bloody fool; why are you keeping her mortal when she is so very beloved by you?

He moved his hand from her hair and stroked with his knuckles at her jaw, then her neck and her collarbone, and he realised just what he'd confessed to her, the things he'd said aloud to her about all of this.

I would be desolate without you.

I am deeply in love with you, my greatest warrior and, I should think, my fondest ally and the only person whose loss would pierce my soul like a knife blade.

Voldemort huffed and let his hand fall from Bellatrix's face, and finally, he said very determinedly,

"Right. Enough's enough. You're going to make a Horcrux."

Bellatrix's full brows furrowed. "I'm going to make a… what's a Horcrux, My Lord?"

He gave her a caustic little smile and tossed up an eyebrow. "I presume the elf here can make tea, hmm? We have some talking to do, you and I. Come."