Author's Notes: Hello! Sorry for the very long delay in updating. Believe it or not, with the strike, I actually have *not* had a ton of time to be writing fanfic, which is crazy. I've been working on a lot of other projects. I also have a full month abroad coming up very soon, so I wanted to go ahead and wrap this story up. Someday, I may go ahead and write a sequel for this story. We'll see! Thanks so very much for reading. I would love to hear what you thought of this story, so comments are welcome. Love to all!

It was comforting, somehow, to place her Horcrux beside his in the Gaunt shack, burrowed beneath the filthy, half-rotted floorboards.

When Voldemort arrived in Little Hangleton, he breathed in deeply and absorbed the ancient stench of poverty around his ancestors' Gaunt home. He glanced up toward the Riddle house where he'd killed his own horrid Muggle father and grandparents and narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth and squaring his jaw, and he snarled as he whirled away. He stalked toward the Gaunt shack and threw open the rickety little door, his strides long through the deserted and moss-covered interior of the place he'd protected with all manner of repelling Charms and wards. The floor protested and creaked beneath his boots until he reached the place where he could sense it - his own Horcrux - and when he crouched down, Voldemort's heart was racing.

He used his wand to magically remove the floorboards and reveal the ornate box in the dusty compartment below. The entire area pulsed and thudded with Voldemort's protective spells, which were so strong that his head ached and his chest thrummed. He cleared his throat as he reached down and extracted the box with a shaking hand, setting it on the unswept floorboards and startling a little at the sound of a rat scuttling by in the remains of the shack. He sniffed a little and then pried open the lid of the lacquered black box, revealing his treasured Horcrux, the Gaunt family ring in which he'd carefully ensconced part of his own soul after murdering his own kin.

"Stay with me, Bellatrix," Voldemort murmured softly, and he reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out the heirloom amethyst necklace she had used to preserve herself from mortality, and he remembered now what she had looked like as the voices of her victims had screamed inside her mind, as she'd pounded Voldemort's chest and shrieked in pain and frustration. But she'd been wondrous, savage and brutal beauty that she was.

I would be desolate without you . That was what he had thought - said? - about the idea of losing her. Well. No matter now. That was all taken care of now. He stared at the amethysts in the palm of his hand, letting the jewels fall among his fingers and holding them up so that he could examine them in the milky moonlight. Her soul was in there. A little fraction of her, just enough to ensure that he wouldn't lose her. His heart slowed and steadied at the thought of that, at the notion that if a jade green Killing Curse socked into her in battle the way hers had done to so many of their enemies, he could use these amethysts to rescue her and to keep her.

"Stay with me, Bellatrix," Voldemort whispered again. He sighed and placed the amethyst necklace inside the ornate black box and just stared for a long moment. His eyes flicked between his own Horcrux, the rather ghastly and ugly old Gaunt ring in its chunky and monstrous form, and Bellatrix's delicate purple jewels. The two pieces of finery lay side by side upon the inky black velvet, partners. Soul mates, mates of soul, bits of them together here, protected, unified, preserved, sheltered, merged.

Suddenly he had a very odd thought, and his mind surged with a vivid, almost painful shock as he contemplated the way that his instinct had been to place the ring he'd had made for Bellatrix upon her left ring finger. She was his, he thought. She'd been his for a few years now, in some ways. In other ways, not nearly so deeply. And he'd not realised, perhaps, until this past autumn how profoundly he'd wanted and then needed to consume and possess her - physically and personally and in every conceivable way. He wanted to devour her, to hold her, to feel her, to laugh with her, to fight alongside her, to behold her serving him… forever . He was still not quite certain what forever would mean, what forever would feel like. He knew he wanted it. He certainly did not want to taste death, not ever. He wanted power, and he wanted Bellatrix, and he wanted forever. He wanted all of those things, all at once. For all eternity.

Finally, Voldemort shut the lacquered box and dragged his fingertips over its smooth lid. He placed the box back beneath the floorboards and huffed a breath, resisting the urge to snatch at the Horcruxes and take them home. He finally put the boards back into place and heaved himself to stand, covered in dust and dirty, and he gulped hard as he shut his eyes and drew his bony yew wand around the area. He murmured every protective charm and spell he could muster up, every ward and enchantment he knew to keep this place free from enemies - magical and Muggle alike. Anyone who might come snooping, trying to sniff out his Horcruxes or even just have a look at the decrepit old shack, would be turned away, repelled, rejected. Not Bellatrix, and not Voldemort. This place was safe for the two of them. It was safe for their souls, which lay beneath the floor, thrumming through metal and stone and gems, hidden away in a beautiful box.

"Bellatrix."

He whispered her name as he stood beside their bed. He'd been filthy when he'd come home, still covered in the detritus from the Gaunt shack, and Bellatrix had been so utterly spent from having created her Horcrux that she hadn't noticed him come into the bedroom at all. She'd showered when she'd arrived home, apparently, but had been far too tired to bother with pyjamas. She was out cold on her stomach beneath the blankets in the brown bedroom, her damp kinky ringlets haphazardly splayed around her head and face, her expression placid in deep sleep. She was nude, and when Voldemort caught a glimpse of her compressed breast and her exposed torso, of her bared thigh, of her lithe arm limply hanging over the edge of the bed, his stomach stirred and he pursed his lips.

But she must be very tired, he told himself. He'd always been unbearably exhausted after the creation of a Horcrux. So he'd gone and taken a very quick shower himself, rushing to spray and scrub off the sediment and scree from his mother's shameful old family shack before emerging with a Turkish towel around his waist. Now he stood beside the bed and spoke gently, quietly, but firmly enough that he was resolved to ease Bellatrix into some form of consciousness.

"Bella."

"Hmm." Eventually, her eyes blinked a few times, and she finally raised her gaze to meet his. She curled up her lips a little and looked like she needed twenty hours of sleep in a row, but she murmured in a hoarse whisper, "My Lord. Is it safe?"

"The bit of your soul that protects you lies beside my own now," Voldemort said by way of an answer, and Bellatrix's smile spread. She pushed herself up onto one elbow, and Voldemort sucked in air hard as her small, round breasts were revealed to him. Her still-damp black curls tumbled around her shoulders. Suddenly her face seemed sharper, more angular, and in her eyes, he saw a bit of a wild flash he'd never noticed before. She did not look altogether different , just… perhaps more crisp and sharp in places and, strangely, softer in others. She noticed him studying her closely, and a self-conscious look came over her as she licked her full lips and asked,

"Am I so changed as that, Master?"

"You are, as always, very beautiful, Bella," he said seriously, with a nod. She responded to that by pushing the blankets back a little more, and she asked softly,

"Please, My Lord, will you… will you come lie with me?"

He scoffed and tipped his head. "You need never ask so plaintively. That is never a thing for which I shall make you beg, Bella; it is a confessed hobby of mine."

She giggled a little then, until Voldemort climbed into the bed and arranged himself atop her, and then she went a little more serious as she yanked his towel from him and tossed it away, pulling her legs up and around his waist and staring up into his eyes. She just gazed at him for a long moment, and then at last she raised her right hand to stroke at his bicep - as she so very often did - and she seemed to hesitate for a second.

"Speak," commanded Voldemort, and she chewed her lip before she mumbled,

"It is only… erm… I had rather hoped, if you were willing, Master, that you might… do that which began our little… you know, the…" She trailed off then, and in the light from the flickering sconce on the wall, Voldemort saw her cheekbones go pink. He smirked down at her and let out a sharp breath.

"I know what you want," he whispered, and suddenly he felt a deep, quick flush of blood to his cock, so sudden and profound that it made him dizzy. Bellatrix seemed to notice it, the way it made his member throb against her inner thigh, and she squirmed beneath him. She panted a little up at him and whispered,

"Y-You do, My Lord?"

"Yes," he hissed. His own breath started to feel a little shallow and sharp in his lungs, and he licked his lips as he glanced around at her bare neck and chest, the parts of her he'd always found most alluring. His face felt quite hot then, and between that flush and his cock, it seemed like there wasn't enough blood left to flow through his veins. His head spun, and he let out a shaking breath as he murmured to her, "Touch my arm. The way you like to."

"Oh." Bellatrix nodded. Her fingertips toyed with his bicep then, coursing around the toned sinew of his upper arm and occasionally gripping carefully. Voldemort grunted and bucked his hips on instinct, feeling his cock slide along the inside of Bellatrix's thigh again. She moaned softly at the friction and wormed around on her back, tossing her head and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before gasping and then admitting, "Oh, it shall happen without you touching me at all."

Voldemort went slack-jawed in shock at that, and his vision blurred. He slid his cock around her inner thigh again, feeling the way it was leaking now, and as he did, a steady, soft little sound came from Bellatrix. She was grasping desperately at his bicep now, and her back was arched, and her legs had tightened around Voldemort's hips. He pushed his cock within an inch of her cunt and felt the lure of damp heat, the magnetic pull of her wet arousal, but before he could enter her, he dragged himself back, and she cried out as though he'd tortured her with a Cruciatus Curse. Then, suddenly, both of her hands had flown to Voldemort's chest, and she pressed her palms there as her breathing devolved into a ragged, uneven, desperate series of heaves and choked little sobs. Her face went tomato red, spreading in a web down her neck, and her arched back collapsed as she lay limply on the bed.

Voldemort watched in wonder as she found release just from him taunting her body with his cock, from him lying above her, from her touching his arm, and he realised she was just as badly off as him now, that she had become nearly as deranged about all of this as he'd been for many months now.

The thought of that was far too much for him, and he grunted and felt his own breath hitch as his cock sent seed surging, erupting onto her inner thigh and toward her cunt. He imagined covering her in it like that, making a great mess of the sheets and of her, and he shuddered where he propped himself above her as his body blistered with white-hot, explosive pleasure and satisfaction. As he pulsed with the mind-numbing for a few moments, Bellatrix stared up at him with half-lidded eyes that betrayed just how tired she really was, and eventually, Voldemort had the clarity of mind to take a few very deep, shaking breaths and reach for his wand to clean up the disaster between them and then flop onto his back beside her.

He yanked at her until she compliantly curled against him, and when he kissed her forehead, she scurried up a little, seeming to want or need more. He kissed her straight on the mouth then, more than willing to do so, until his lips felt bruised and he was dizzy and breathless again. At last, she seemed so tired she could hardly force herself to stay awake any longer, and she finally nestled up against his side and said quietly,

"Thank you, Master. For everything. For… for letting me fall in love with you. For my beautiful ring. For allowing me to serve you and fight for you. For informing me of your Horcruxes and compelling me to make one of my own. For -"

"Marry me, Bella," Voldemort said then, before he could censor the words. He sighed, staring at the ceiling, for Bellatrix was silent in response. Voldemort had been planning on saying those words ever since he'd been in Little Hangleton, but he'd feared losing his nerve. He knew damned well that his mind and soul had wished for Bellatrix to be his in this capacity for some time now. There had, perhaps, once been a time when he would have never wished for such a maudlin and stupid thing as marriage, but here they were, living together, her with his ring on the correct finger, their Horcruxes side by side.

"Say something, you silly girl," he whispered, and Bellatrix finally replied in a quiet, careful tone,

"There could be no higher honour, My Lord."

His eyes burned then. She'd said those words to him before, many times, under a variety of circumstances. Somehow, they meant a great deal just now. So he just nodded and reached for her left hand, and he brought her fourth finger to his hand, kissing at the Alexandrite and sandstone ring he'd had made for her. He felt the stones and metal touch his lips, and then he thought of his ring and her necklace, concealed beneath the floorboards in Little Hangleton.

Their souls, carefully preserved, together. Forever.

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

So many times, Voldemort had asked himself that question, but he'd solved that problem now. Beloved. She was beloved by him. She belonged to him. She was his, and he'd seen to it that she would be his forever.

Marry me, Bella, he'd said, and then, Say something, you silly girl, to which she'd replied, dutifully and obediently, There could be no higher honour, My Lord.

He remembered other thoughts he'd had about her then, other things he'd told her.

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.

Whatever twisted and slightly deranged form of love it is I might be capable of manifesting… whatever that is… I could only feel it for you. I want you to know that. It is important to me that you understand that, as my most trusted servant, and my greatest soldier, and my best acolyte.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort whispered then, and he turned his head until he caught her gaze. He realised then that her wide, beautiful brown eyes had welled with tears, and she nodded as she fought through whatever had come over her to force a little smile over her full lips. She swiped roughly at her eyes and nodded.

"Yes, Master?"

"You will kill for me. Over, and over, and over, and over again," he said, and her smile quirked and grew as she nodded.

"I shall, My Lord. I do swear it. I shall do as you command me until the end of time."

He reached to brush away a stray curl and sighed.

"And you shall do so as the Dark Lord's wife. My most trusted servant and my very greatest soldier. Hmm?"

Bellatrix nodded firmly then, leaning to kiss at his bicep. "There could be no higher honour, Master."

"Good," he heard the bit of thickness in his own voice then. "It is settled. Let us get some sleep. It has been quite a night."

FIN

THE END