Notes:

The first version of the fic was written for the Discord Festumsempra "Fest Vacances", a French speaking event where we had to write about the theme of holidays (mostly summer holidays, since it was in August 2021).

I wanted this to reach a wider audience (and improve my literary English!) so I self-translated with the help of a native speaker.

Anyways, hope you guys enjoy this insanity :P

Work Text:

Lord Voldemort was a busy man.

After the fall of the Ministry of Magic, he hadn't had any free time. He had hoped for some downtime so he could engage in Dark Arts experiments, but he had noticed there was always somebody to torture or ransom, or a curse to foil. Truth be told, the creativity of what was left of the resistance when it came to booby-trapped letters would have been charming, had it not been aimed at him.

As if his foes were not giving him enough trouble, the Death Eaters were in disarray. He had to deal with them on a case-by-case basis. He couldn't kill them one by one and that was a shame, because since their victory, most of them had spun out of control. Alcoholism, an immoderate penchant for risk to reproduce the euphoria of battle… so many ills he could not handle with a simple Avada Kedavra, least he would lose the Pureblood class's support.

Unsurprisingly, Bellatrix figured among the most restless. She still acted as torturer during questioning and as trainer in the new academy for apprentice Death Eaters. Located in the confines of Riddle Manor (as a revenge against his Muggle grandparents, he had renamed their abode "Gaunt Manor") for this purpose, equipped with pioneering spells, it was the jewel of the Dark Lord. He had high hopes for these new recruits: of less pure backgrounds, (he agreed to turn a blind eye if they didn't boast about it), they were more docile, in more open competition, which favored emulation. Hopefully, these new followers would be more disciplined than the previous generation, too pretentious from the top of their privileges.

From his office, he would admire their duel practice, where curses raged. Hair spun, people shouted and cussed. A mere echo of past battles, he thought, a smirk on his lips. Nevertheless, he needed an actual army, not a gang of degenerate squires. In his youth, he had made a great mistake, that of getting mixed up with anyone (not to say anything), so long as they would follow him. He would never go down that road again!

The results were more than worth Bellatrix's infuriated groans. On the nights when they had the time to dine together, she looked glum, fulminating against "this gaggle of Half-Bloods who can barely hold a wand". In reality, students were hand-picked after attending Hogwarts, and it was not unusual for Voldemort to grant an advantageous promotion to the best recruits at the end of their course.

However, he might have extrapolated a tad too far when he had concluded that the private lessons she had once taught to her nephew were the sign of unexpected educational talents. One could not say her didactic efforts had been as successful with the classes she supervised, especially the time she had called one of the few Pure-Blood greenhorns a Mudblood. The provocation had had the anticipated effect, he had finally been able to throw a Fiendfyre. On the other hand, due to his poor aim and his rage, he had burned down the South wing.

Needless to say, prisoners were more than ever Bellatrix's way of letting steam off.

Talking about dissatisfaction, the front page of one of the newspapers to which he was subscribed caught his attention.

"80% of Witched Discontent with Their Marital & Intimate Lives!"

The article was final: British Wizards were hopeless in the bedroom. Whether Irish, Welsh, English or Scottish, young or old, of any blood status, the sanction of statistics was a fatal blow: their women were bored to tears.

Voldemort usually did not read such gutter articles. He abhorred being reeled in in such a way, but he had to admit, the subject attracted him. Eight witches out of ten sounded unimaginable to him.

This thorough survey, made by means of an anonymous questionnaire, concerned no less than five thousand witches, and about as many wizards. If marital happiness rates were high among men, most witches confessed on paper some uncharitable thoughts. The "open comment" section, of which the most scathing comments had been reproduced, did not lack in sass:

"Every intercourse with my husband is a chore. I'd rather de-gnome the garden. Literally. That's my excuse so he won't make love to me 'Darling, I must go to the garden, new gnomes have popped up!'"

"I have been cheating on my husband for years with my best friend. I can't bring myself to feel guilty. Sapphic love is unparalleled! The feeling of a woman's tongue against her lover's intimate lips is incomparable. My fellow women, give yourself over to the softness of lesbian pleasure, you shall not regret it".

"I married for money, apart from that, my husband has the charm of a Flobberworm. I sleep with him purely for the sake of marital duties, but since he has lost his fortune to drinks and courtesans, I am within a hair's breadth of joining their ranks. I believe they earn a better living than I do. Additionally, having caught every venereal disease through my husband, I will at least be immune for my new occupation."

"I have reached new heights of happiness since I have been widowed. I can finally drink Polyjuice and go to orgies! My female friends envy me a lot. Since I'm such a good sport, I give them potion leftovers whenever I have some".

The list of fun comments went on.

That the incompetence of some men could overflow into the bedroom was no surprise to Voldemort. He had experienced every flavour of uselessness, from his childhood till now. (Which may have something to do with his quest for immortality… a certain desire to renounce humanity had always span with him).

What nagged at him the most was the discrepancy between what most men thought of themselves, and what women got out of it.

A certain malaise creeped into him. Oh, he did not doubt he must be part of the few percent of men left who were worth something… of course.

That being said, there is nothing worse in a relationship than doubt. He called Bella at once through her Mark. While she was on her way, he took out a flask of Veritaserum, and put a few drops in her drink. This version, improved by Severus, had replaced the older one in the Death Eaters ranks, for he had skilfully added a Volubility philtre. This allowed for broader questions, where you would let enemies talk, instead of exhausting yourself with twisted questions. In addition, the updated potion let emotions show on the face, a sometimes-crucial information which had previously been hidden under the coldness provoked by the Veritaserum.

Up until then, he had never needed to use it on her. Her occlumency was already nearing perfection when she had first joined him, kind assistance of the House Black to his movement. He had had a hard time trusting her, as someone who was accustomed to digging into the mind of his followers. However, the Veritaserum was a warped potion: the subject could develop a resistance to it as time went by. Therefore, it was a last resort.

Besides, Voldemort had gotten to know Bella along the years, to such an extent that she ended up in his bed. She demonstrated so many times her absolute devotion that he did not see the point in forcing her to talk. She would have felt betrayed, he would not risk an emotional outburst, since he trusted her (well, as far his standards went with regards to trust, i.e., never entirely).

A few times, out of idle curiosity, he waited for her to fall asleep, in hopes of seeing something while her barriers were down. Much to his surprise, they remained up and strong. He only glimpsed vague mists; dreams turned phantoms.

Bella knocked softly on the door.

Still in training attire, face red from exercise, hair up in a rough bun, she sported her unfathomable expression of days when she was wary of his impromptu call.

"Sit down, my Bella. I do not have any reproach, do not take that air".

Her lips softened. Her pretty face relaxed a little.

She sat, still on her guard. When he raised his cup of tea, she mimicked him. They drank a sip in silence.

"Now, tell me, Bella, I have a personal question for you."

"Personal?"

"According to an article I read this morning, the great majority of witches find their sexual companion boring as can be. I dare to hope I do not belong in the crowd of pretentious men who are convinced of their prowess?"

Oh, come one, she was going to say no, of cou…

"To be honest, yes you do."

"Pardon?! "

Bella immediately hid her mouth with her hand – an expression reminiscent of the three Japanese monkeys, who respectively cover their eyes, mouths, and ears. An entertaining comparison had the hour not been so dire.

"… Meaning?"

"For starters, you just forced me to talk, a tastelessness I would not have expected from you.

"Don't tell me you would have answered honestly without a bit of help."

"Help? Help? I just ingested Veritaserum against my will!"

"Answer my question: what do you dislike so much about our life together?"

"Pretty much everything."

"… Pardon?"

"I don't know where to start!"

She waved her arms towards the sky, as if expecting some sort of aid from it. She got up and started pacing back and forth in the room.

"First of all, you used to make a lot more effort for me before you came back from the dead. It's as if something had… disappeared. I understand your desire to surpass humanity, I admire it, even. But, at least in private, I would like you to save for me what's left of it."

"I... haven't had a lot of time for you since my resurrection, I'll admit to that."

(Since when did he stammer like a virgin in front of the first woman he had shagged? Since when did he admit to being wrong? He had to take over the reins of the situation. If she emboldened herself too much, it would create a detestable precedent in their relationship).

"Ah, so Mister Immortal doesn't have time for his mistress?"

He was left speechless. He sipped again his tea, excellent pretext to prevent himself from saying the wrong thing.

Taking advantage of his silence, Bella went on a tirade:

"Sometimes, I think you ought to pay me. I truly am putting on a show for you, do you know? Since you're asking, here you go: I am through with having to cast a silent lubricare so it won't hurt. I shan't suffer to visit old memories in my Pensieve to check how my screams sounded, back when they were still sincere."

"It's not my fault you possess such acting talents! As I can't read your mind, I observe you, and from the outside, nothing has changed since our throes of passion of yore. Sometimes, you come to me! You knock on my door, at night, dressed only in lace – most becoming, I must say. How am I to guess your dissatisfaction? And you moan so prettily, with such enthusiasm! Have you been faking it this whole time? My tongue is agile, don't tell me that you find even that kind of caress dreary?"

"Bravo, how very perspicacious of you!" She mocked. "The caress in question is barely passable, you rush through it to move on to the next steps. It has occurred exactly thrice since you came back – yes, I counted. I would like to not have to monitor my every move from the outside so that you'll come faster and harder. Additionally, I will no longer chant dark spells while we mate. Alternatively, we could switch for once, and use my pleasure to strengthen our respective magical cores, what say you? For your guidance, women can experience one orgasm after the other, well, mind you, so could you, if you'd let me peg you, but based on your expression, we can kiss goodbye to that. Oh, but I forgot! the point never was to make a blooming witch out of me, or else you would have noticed a long time ago that these spells only work on you. One thing is for sure: the Lord of Darkness is not the Lord of Orgasms."

A scornful smile appeared on her lips, very proud of her gibe.

"You mentioned lace: indeed, I make all the efforts when it comes to presentation. Look, on a symbolic level, I admire your appearance. It is the embodiment of you more-than-human rebirth, and it isn't devoid of a certain… reptilian elegance. And it's unique, no one could take that away from you. The shrivelled nose is still acceptable, since contrary to the speculations of the troops, it isn't the sign of another absence. But the baldness… the body temperature that is lacking in a few degrees… I am literally cooled. You wouldn't have an old hairbrush laying around? A bit of Polyjuice to take back your previous form… now that would do me some good. By the way, you are a tad peaky, Master… have you considered getting out of your office, lately? No, your nocturnal fits of theatrics in front of the troops do not count!"

She had moved away from the desk and was now crossing her arms. She was looking at the door.

"We used to have good times together. You would read works I had never heard of to me. Even when there was nothing erotic about the topic, I wasn't any less happy to be the centre of your attention. I could not care less about your explanations about history, the future or natural sciences, I just wanted you to go on talking about what you were passionate about.

For this reason, I didn't find it degrading that most of our private time was spent shagging. I didn't find myself reduced to the status of object, for on top of being your general, I was your friend. Cease grimacing, you're even uglier like that. What do you call someone with whom you share your joys and sorrows, even in your distant fashion? With whom, after a few cups of wine, you'd ramble, without fear of talking nonsense? A friend to whom you lent your wand many a time? Unless you've been keeping secrets from me, no other Death Eater can boast that they held the Elder want in their hands. In short, I had my role in your life, and it was not that of a cum doll!"

"Oh, come on… Cum doll? Bellatrix, don't be crass!"

"Crass? Surely this is a joke! I'll tell you what's crass, you oaf: treating your mistress of old like this!"

She strode towards the door, her wrath making the furniture vibrate around her. Voldemort flung himself out of his chair to catch her by the arm. She freed herself from his hold. He looked at his own hand with astonishment.

"You have never stooped to physically detaining me. I almost want to stay, muggle-style. I suppose that using a potion against me suffices for you little magic trick of the day?"

He took one step back, establishing a respectful distance between them. He caught her eyes. They were red.

He extended his hands to her, in a more appeased move, hoping she would take it. Her arms remained along her body.

"Are you done humiliating me? Is this a new kind of torture? If only you were as imaginative in the bedroom as when it comes to making me miserable!"

Her voice cracked on these last words. She slammed the door behind her.

The silence of his office was unbearable to him.

There was only one solution. His two-steps method against foul mood had never failed him:

Take it out on prisoners

Read until he was drunk on information

Once he was out of the dungeons, he locked himself in the library. He frenetically looked up his old books, whether erotic or educational. He noticed his memories of these, which he had mostly read in his youth so he would not ridicule himself during his first experiences, were excessively flattering. They lacked in precision, particularly about female pleasure. Furthermore, their vulgarity surprised Voldemort. The chapters had very lurid titles but offered little information, all of it hidden under layers of a half-teasing, half-pompous purple prose. He must have been in a haste back then to lose his virginity to give a miss on such lack of taste.

He grudgingly dissected more recent works, which made him conclude that he was, to express oneself in a horrendously frank manner, a lout, but not incurable.

He had always rejected the concept of raw intuition. Talent, though an essential element, did not suffice. It ought to be polished, struck while it was still hot, nourished with knowledge and relentless – if not abrupt – practice. When she became his student, Bella had sometimes complained about his methods, but he had only implemented them for his special project after testing them on himself. Artist-like, he loved to make his followers believe that only verve had led him where he was, yet nothing was further was from the truth. Without iron discipline, he would still be working at Barjow and Burks.

He could not conceive how he could possibly have possessed a natural gift to procure intense pleasure to his partner without even realizing it, to then lose it brutally, still unbeknown to him.

This went against his entire self-perception. He deemed every aspect of the world, organised them to his inclination, destroyed them if need be, including when it came to his own person. He ought not miss a thing!

Lord Voldemort had risen by his own means, developed his abilities alone, had created his legend. What had he lost when he had incorporated his new body? Most of the time, his senses were like before, more sharpened, even. His magic was vastly strengthened. His values remained identical. How could have fate have thwarted him with such slyness and made him lose something, while all his efforts tended towards first-of-their-kind improvement in the History of Magic?

Now, if he was honest with himself (and Lord knew he detested soul-searching) he had to admit his sensations were sometimes suddenly scrambled. He did not inhabit this body like the former one. It was his toy, his jewellery case – dare he say, his life work – and he took great pride in it. Nonetheless, concentrating so much magical power in a single carnal envelope might have defied too many natural laws. His body as a perfect weapon had replaced his body as a part of the self. By dint of treating his flesh as a mere means to immortality, he had abandoned everything that wasn't immediately useful to him.

Thus, he had kept libido for the simple reason that it distracted him more than any other leisure activities, and that the resulting clarity of mind was proportional to the oblivion from the world and its responsibilities. Pleasure enhanced magical energy, especially paired with amplification rituals, the ones Bella was complaining about. He could have removed these urges by tweaking the rebirth ritual a little, but he had figured he would have lost a lot of time to Bella's tantrums.

Formerly, it would have never occurred to him to turn the act into a purely mechanical action. In moments of perfect coordination, they had produced accidental sex magic.

They used to fuck without having planning it, at receptions, between two toasts, and Bella was still sweating while he gave his speech.

Or inside Malfoy Manor's greenhouse, like teenager, during summer celebrations.

On his work desk, once, to quench one of Bella's fantasies (a bit too edgy, including for him).

Dressed up as a maid in Gaunt Manor's library. Thankfully, she didn't quite understand what the purpose behind this short-white-apron-on-a-tiny-black-dress outfit was, apart from the feather duster, which indicated a household shore. He was inwardly grateful to her for not asking any questions. You don't choose your fantasies, he repeated to himself, you don't choose your fantasies, you don't choose to get a hard-on from trite things.

He had almost understood what love-making meant under a tree, on a beautiful summer day, debasing himself for fun by teaching her how to bike. Without ever saying the term "muggle childhood", he would sometimes teach her perfectly useless things to banish the phantom of work, always lingering when your mistress has taken your Mark.

He had ventured to read her muggle works, once or twice. He had quickly explored all the possibilities of wizarding literature, given the limited number of "speakers". He had given up after realizing there was too much to explain, ruining the enjoyment, and that it brought up the dreadful question How come you know so much about those you despise?

On that day, after bike riding, he had taken her against a birch. He had admired her delightful face, vibrant from an orgasm caused only by an enthusiastic penetration. All dressed in white, in a short muggle sport skirt she found scandalous, breathless, almost fragile in this unlikely position against tree, seated on summer-dried moss, her hair ruffled in waves, brushing against her half-bare, half-bundled up in her dress breast, she was ravishing. He had a brief glimpse into what a wedding night would have been, had he met her under different circumstances. She was already burning up when he entered her, and her mewling was only made more delicious when it echoed in the countryside.

They had it off gaily, hunger begetting hunger, pleasure begetting pleasure, without seeking to define a relationship of debt or usefulness between them two.

Having had few occasions to play in his childhood, sex had become a fertile ground for his creativity, an unexpected way of catching up. He relied entirely on Bella's body language, her little screams that often turned into howling, the groan of a satisfied animal, her crude encouragements, which, pronounced at the beginning of foreplay, nearly made him come before his time.

He hardly understood this term, "love". What was the difference between attachment, possessiveness, lust, need, affection, mushiness, or the mere desire to fill your free time in a pleasant manner? Everything he had read about it, everything he had seen in other people's minds had only helped him draw the outline of every notion, how they overlapped and completed each other.

How to organise them on his own terms, how not to fall prey to weakness, how to treat oneself to certain pleasures without giving up on those that power provides, how to keep the public and the private from colliding, he could not possibly theorise it. After a few months of improvisation at the beginning of their relationship, he and Bella had enough found tacit agreements that it would not be necessary to argue endlessly.

He would rather make love to her than say it, the nudity of the body less intimate than that of words.

When he came back, he had come closer to some sort of serpentine divinity, with no regard for his mistress's needs. His refusal of the inefficient, the tender, the soft – in short, everything that had led to his downfall – had urged him to neglect other aspects. The utilitarian squashing of everything that resembled oversensitivity had incidentally mangled his sensitiveness to human affairs, a nuance that, too eager to extract himself from limbo, he did not grasp when he recreated his body.

His indifference to the preoccupations of others had evolved from natural inclination to deliberate scheme. His blood, cold as stone, setting the tone for the rest of his metamorphosis.

His magic reacted seamlessly to his slightest whims, and this new command gave him ecstatic shivers whenever he tried his hand at more-ambitious-than-ever experiments.

In his desire to control every aspect of his life, personal and political alike, he had taken Bella's attentions for granted. Until then, if she had asked him to change his behavior (demands to which he would yield as long as they respected the hierarchy between them), she had never wanted him to change who he was. She loved him, not despite what some called his delusions of grandeur, but because of it. However, radically transforming every ounce of the self did mean a breach of contract, a deceit.

Bella waited thirteen years for a man of flesh and blood, not for a half-snake who had reshuffled the cards of humanity so much that he had lost himself in the magic trick.

Ah, genius had nothing to do with it. His stupidity, however, did.

He had taken his intuitions for granted too, those rare moments where he would set aside his intellectual side to let something more visceral express itself. He had imagined his long spectral phase would leave him unscathed, that it would not damage the animal part of him, that he would integrate in body as if nothing had happened after eons without warmth, without sensations, nothing but the bite of absence.

Mortified, he got out of his office and knocked softly (just for once) on Bella's door.

"Rod, it's five in the morning, aren't you ashamed of yourself?! You better not be drunk this time! But since you're here, come on in…"

"No, Bella, it's me."

A few seconds of silence, then the sound of fabric moving (she must have been putting her clothes back on or rearranging her sheets). Her "come in" had rarely been so icy.

Lights off, Bella's face was in the shadow. Seated on her bed, the moon's light seemed violent against her white sheet, which she had brought on her torso. A royal blue blanket was laid on her bed, a second night falling all around her. It occurred to Voldemort that, in the midst of agitation, he might have poorly chosen his moment. However, he could not retreat now without losing his authority. Besides, she had let him come in.

"You know Master, I have been thinking about what happened this morning."

"Oh, really? He asked in his most neutral tone."

"The problem is what you just did."

"… meaning?"

"You come into my bedroom at a ridiculous hour, all of this to trouble me with your little misplaced problems of male ego (by the way, those little problems would never have happened if you weren't such a boor) and I can't tell you to take a hike without risking a sanction. The Veritaserum is no longer working, but since the Pandora box is now open, with little regard for my dignity by the way, let's go all the way through."

Voldemort sat on the armchair the most remote from Bella, a tiny, low-built thing, in which he barely fit. To avoid further misunderstandings, he cast a modest lumos, just enough for her to be able to read his facial expressions.

"I have been thinking too, you were right a few years ago when you said we both needed a holiday. Don't you believe a change of scenery away from our daily worries would do us a world of good?"

Bella played with her sheets, as if an answer would come out of them, an improbable oracle.

"It's funny you would remember that. I had forgotten about it. I have forgotten how to come in your presence, too," she said with such acrimony that he had to restrain himself from grinding his teeth.

"You did not answer my question, this morning: sometimes, you come begging for sexual touch. If I am such a catastrophe, and that you no longer find me attractive, why do you still spend time with me?"

She suddenly rose, fuming. She brought her nightgown closer to herself, in a self-protective gesture. She ostensibly looked out the window. From this angle, the moon must have lit her face, but he was too far away from her and too low on his seat. He couldn't decipher her expressions any better than before.

"I keep seeing you because I am naïve, not to say foolish. Because I am still awaiting an epiphany on your part so that I will not need to say things on my own initiative. I secretly hope you will suddenly take the time to pleasure me, to caress me before you go on the offensive (the expression made Voldemort grimace). That you will not only satisfy my hunger, but also show me tenderness… do not sulk, you used to be delicate, I call that tenderness."

"You would warm up the back of my neck with your fingers. You would give me a considerate massage before going in. You would stroke your nose against mine, you would kiss my eyelids when you thought me asleep. You would flutter my collarbone with kisses, you would rub your cheek against mine before nibbling my neck. In the post-pleasure frenzy, you would compliment me: 'You are perfect my Bella, you are divine!'. I was never bored, every time we would invent something new, whether original positions or minuscule gesture. We were genuine!"

"I would like you to scream again what used to come naturally during orgasm, that is, 'Oh my God!', not this absolute horseshit of 'Merlin himself!'. I know you are a half-blood, and that you were raised in an orphanage, my father told me before he died. There is no need for this much pantomime, particularly when it's just the two of us. I never told you this, so as not to offend you. This, too, pains me. You know everything about me – my family, my friends, my history."

"The first time you talked to me, I was but a child! All I know is smatterings. You have created quite the mosaic around you, haven't you? I understand this strategy as a politician, I would even argue it is essential to any public figure. But towards me? Don't you find yourself ridiculous? You demand the truth for me, but you never return the courtesy to me. What does that make me look like? I force myself because I fear you will leave me for a pretty young thing. My appeal is declining, no one else will want me.

She shook her head, her curls loose and shining silver. She put her elbows on the windowsill, and then her forehead against her forearm. Now, all he could hear was the noise of birds in the trees, and his mistress' breath, as if she were doing breathing exercises. When she rose her head again, her face expressed a new resolution.

"Get up."

It was late, his eyes were stinging after swallowing so many words unceasingly. More importantly, he was agitated.

That fateful day when he has lost his body was no doubt the most brutal upheaval one might imagine. But usually, mere words could not touch him, unless they threatened his physical integrity. He did not hesitate to punish the slightest trace of disrespect among his followers, but it was more out of principle than out of genuine hurt to his ego. He nipped insubordination in the bud, without taking umbrage.

Thusly, little news had rattled his world, except when on the day he had learnt his father was a mere Muggle, and his mother, a failed witch. Even the existence of a prophecy predicting his downfall at the hands of a child had not overly bothered him, so persuaded he would find a solution.

He abhorred excessive emotions, even more so those that implied self-questioning. Usually, when he was irritated, he would confide in Bella. He was careful to mask any disproportionate turmoil, and so had succeeded in finding a balance between being listened to and keeping his dignity. (Based on his lover's pout, he had often suspected she found those conversations unfathomable. They turned into tirades, pronounced without any agitation in his voice).

The lack of diversity in his interlocutors, that is to say, his one and only interlocutor, came at the wrong time. In other circumstances, he would have put her back in her place. Right now, all he wanted was to appease the storm, get back into his confidante's good graces and go to bed.

He got closer to the window, his face turned towards Bellatrix, the moon at his back. Suddenly, she turned away from the panes, stepped back and got between him and the rest of the room. He could finally see her face. She was furious and exhausted; a damning sentence was about to be received.

He was the greatest Dark Lord of all times, and yet he felt cornered by this little woman.

Her eyelids fluttering, she was staring into space, or rather at a dot that must have been situated right next to his head, as if to express her anger without having to face up to his gaze.

"At the end of the day, you might be right. Love is a weakness. If I knew how to get rid of it, believe me, I would have eons ago! Yet, my sentimentalism is convenient to you. Dare tell me otherwise! Dare tell me you don't take advantage of it every second!"

She brought her face closer to his. This time, she looked him right in the eyes, she hit with her last cards.

"But if you have not yet replaced me with one of your empty-headed groupies. It must be that fundamentally, I possess some qualities you cannot find anywhere else. I suggest you take stock of them, in case you would have forgotten them."

She came closer to him. Her breasts brushed against him, before she stepped back like a feline. Her dressing gown parted. He could make out her body both her exposed decolletage and her breasts pointing below the tissue. In between two pieces of iridescent purple fabric, her smooth skin. Much to his surprise, she was not wearing a nightshirt, only knickers of black satin. Her perfume evoked peach juice and an August's night torpor. She tilted her head backwards, pushed aside a lock of hair with her left hand, and then put it on his torso – a cavalier gesture, but so delicious (ah, the appeal of novelty! Even in the midst of impertinence, it is so hard to resist).

With her other hand, she put her finger on her lover's lips, in the fashion of when one is trying to silence someone.

With a predatory smile she usually reserved for prisoners, she lashed out:

"Since I have been so honest with you, I propose you do the same. Why do you keep seeing me?"

Voldemort's quaking change in its nature when these words came out of his mouth:

"Because you are the only one I like."

"So, if there was a prettier one, you would have already left, then?"

"Of course not! It was a compliment! A sincere one, as you have so well assured yourself of it. You can be so pig-headed when you lose your temper! By the way, how very cheeky of you to use a stratagem you found vile a few hours ago."

"… Admittedly. So, to reiterate my question, what do you like about me?"

"You're a femme fatale, which has always been my fantasy. You are by far my greatest and most loyal soldier, devilishly intelligent when the… let's say after-effects of Azkaban do not manifest themselves. You laugh at my jokes, you listen to me when something is worrying me. (She cocked an eyebrow at the term, strangely sentimental for him).

"I am not such a bastard I would replace you with anyone. You are perfectly to my taste, I don't mind your age. I was never one of those uncouth people who only care for fresh blood. (She was briefly speechless). What I think I am guessing through your words, is that you would like a more egalitarian relationship, a more humane one, like what we had before Potter wiped me off the map. Yet, I cannot afford that. I would have to marry you, following the etiquette of the smart set, meaning I would become my servant and former friend's son-in-law, who knew not so commendable things of me in my youth."

"Both my parents are dead. What is holding you back? Do not tell me you fear his portrait."

"There is still your sister and your family in law, and that is out of the question. Surely you do not wish for me to kill the three of them? (She rolled her eyes). The issues go deeper than that of family allegiances. If we were equal, I would have to tell you about my past, which I find repulsive. I would have to take into consideration everything you say, and to make compromises.

I was humiliated enough in my youth as a poor orphan. Either I attracted pity, or people wanted to take advantage of me. When I learnt that my father was a Muggle to boot, killing him did not appease my fear to be found out, not to mention my disgust at the thought of such an unworthy background. I had to stay on my guard and sneak into society, which was hard on my pride."

"I find reassuring that you took the Mark: I know you will never allow yourself to question me, or rather, that is what I thought until today, but I shall not hold this access of frankness against you, since I provoked it."

"Though freely given loyalty is theoretically a great and noble thing, in practice, it entails a most unpleasant insecurity, especially when it comes to intimate relationships. Having grown up without ties, I have always made sure that fealty sworn to me was at worst, strong, at best, unswerving."

"The only thing that saddens me about us is that you are not immortal, and that when you are no longer here, I do not know who will be at the same time my general, my strategist, my confidante, and the joy of my nights. For, I must tell you, your blowjobs are beyond this world. In fact, you are unique, both in your talents and the conjunction of circumstances that brought is closer. You made that Veritaserum very strong, didn't you?"

How very humiliating that he had to say this smack in the middle of an erection. Stooping to the lowest of mushiness while the serum ardently demanded he said, "All right, let's make up on the couch, you suck my cock, I'll return you the favour, and we stop talking about it, right?"

Luckily, he was the greatest Dark Lord of all times. His magic could not completely cancel the effects of the potion, but he could keep for himself what had not been explicitly asked. (Note to self: invent the famous method of mithridatisation against Veritaserum that has made Potion Master pull their hair out for centuries. ASAP.)

"You have never complimented me like this! Never! Would it kill you to flatter me? You are so miserly!"

"It is true that I do not like to fall into soppiness. It seemed obvious to me. An exceptional man could only want an exceptional woman. If you do not want to be in a state, you could just say things openly to me. Had I known, I would have made adjustments – on the matter of compliments, I cannot promise anything when it comes to the rest."

Her hands in her hair, she seemed as though she was about to pull them out.

"At this point you are not a boor, but an idiot! As if I could be honest with someone to whom I sold my soul! As if I were at liberty to express myself without you becoming enraged! I am already lucky not to have failed when we were retrieving the prophecy from the Ministry, or else, I don't dare to imagine what you would have done to me. Crucio? Public punishment? Good thing I am irreproachable! What kind of a relationship is it if there is no room for error, if the price of a mistake may be torture? See, you do not correct me! Don't be a hypocrite, if I had any right to be candid with you, I would not have needed the serum."

She turned her back on him a few seconds, then came back to him. He stood next to the window like a halfwit, stunned by the scale of what had started out as an experiment.

"Things are crystal clear, now. Like I thought, you only care about yourself, your pride, and your comfort. Here is my ultimatum: either we renew our relationship from top to bottom, or I will see someone else. Good luck finding someone as exceptional as me, with your snake face!"

"Yes, and pitiful at satisfying me. Too bad, I'll have one-night stands. That will still be less humiliating than begging for affection that will never come. I might not find the one, but at least, I'll get off."

A hint of panic took hold of Voldemort. Was she capable of going that far? She would miss him, for sure. Bella was known for her loyalty as much as for her principles, and among them was dignity. She had never contacted Andromeda again, except on the battlefield – which, during the Battle of Hogwarts, had ended poorly for the traitress. When a certain boundary had been breached, Bella, precisely, no longer had any.

"You don't say anything?"

"I'm thinking, is that forbidden now?" He snarled, annoyed. "I don't understand why you blame me so much. I never forced you!"

She sighed deeply, her head between her hands. She was shaking her head, as if to chase away the nonsense she had just heard.

"Choice… interesting you would bring up the topic. You see, in my youth, I possessed a certain ardour, almost candid in the way I would give it to anyone who would let it express itself. You were so charmed by it that you fashioned me according to your interests. If we are all the fruit of the contingencies of life, or our milieu and the encounters it allows, I find myself thinking that my network always converges towards one and only one person: you. Without you, I would not have been able to distinguish myself in battle. I would have been judged solely on my rank and my marriage. Without you, I would have had the choice between remaining a virgin or cheating on my gay husband and still incurring my relations' wrath. Without you, there would have been no stakes, no lustre, no zest to my existence."

"On the other hand, without you, I would not have withered away for thirteen years in jail. A part of me stayed there, and yet, you attach little importance to my sacrifice! I gave you my life, and in exchange, all I am entitled to are public honours that are not reflected in private. No matter what I do, your manners towards me are so austere they lead me to believe that I am mostly a political symbol to you, that of complete devotion. I am at once eternally grateful to you and eternally dependant on you – surely, as someone who loves his autonomy so much, you should be able to understand this torment."

"Like every minion, I still have to call you Master, and use "vous" with you whenever we speak in French - a comical arrangement, erotic even, if it remained confined to the bedroom, I must confess. Nevertheless, when we are alone, the beginning of our new agreement would be allowing me to call you "tu", as well as you telling me your other name, your birth one. I could not sort out the rumours around that damn word. Even Father could not tell me, terrified as he was to lose what little was left of his life under the Taboo. Don't glare at me like that, I didn't say your real name! I am not self-important enough to denigrate the name you chose for yourself – even though macaronic French was not most judicious. You did not quite master the language of Molière back then, huh? Joke aside, Narcissa was not wrong when she said nothing could be built on such an unfair base. I demand to know the name of your childhood. Actually, about the "tu" issue, I will now try my hand at it. So…"

Her tongue twisted, as if she were having trouble swallowing a disgusting pill. She cleared her throat.

"Comment vous… comment t'appelles-tu ? "

They were on holiday. On holiday! the thing of yokels and layabouts! He found this voluntary idleness disturbing, not to say morally reprehensible. How could a person not be ashamed of openly saying I am doing nothing with my time, except relax? Yet one more idea invented by decadent aristocrats, that's what it was – and what was his concubine.

They were ri-di-cu-lous. They spent their days playing the Nice Little Couple comedy. For the occasion, he was using a semi-permanent Glamour charm, inspired by his form under Polyjuice (he had, in fact, located said hairbrush). With this more attractive appearance, they were exploring Venice like goddamn tourists.

He found it despicable that he had to doll up. He did not think of himself as all that reactionary, but it seemed to him that it was up to women to dress up. He, whose appearance had always strived to inspire dread, felt quite despondent at the thought of becoming an object of desire. Doing his hair, putting on perfume, arranging his shirt collar… back to square one, when he was nothing but an upstart in the Wizarding world. Ironically, this time, he was doing things the other way around: he swapped ample robes for suits.

For, even though Wizarding Venice was preferred, they had explored the tiny neighbourhood in a weekend. Bella being unaccustomed to the Muggle world, he briefed her for a whole afternoon so she would not act like an oddball. Had they truly wanted to avoid Muggles, they could have made a stopover at every Wizarding enclave in Italy, but Bella preferred calm and stability ("Oh no, we can't move out every three days!").

A few years ago, when his victory was far from assured, they would have loathed putting even one toe on that side of the barrier. Nowadays, he ruled the United Kingdom, and his Internationale Coalition for the Lifting of Wizarding Secrecy was gaining currency. Thus, he did not see anything wrong with studying this world on the brink of extinction. It was hard to feel hostility towards a people, even an ignorant one, when you are about to dominate it.

Besides, the change of scene from one magical place to another remained limited, compared to the cultural leap between the Wizarding and the Muggle world. Nothing could help Bella get away from the sour taste of everyday life than discovering an incomprehensible environment. There was nothing here to make her recall her life as a Quasi-Dark Lady.

They visited the city's armada of churches. Voldemort explained Christianity to Bella. Raised in the vague paganism of Pure-Blood high society, she found this belief system quite exotic, and struggled to differentiate between patron saints and ancient divinities.

Then again, she liked stained-glass windows very much. The one she had seen in the United-Kingdom were tacky, as artists focused all their skills on the ability to magically move the creatures they had drawn, rather than their own artistic skill. Generally speaking, the immobility of Muggle art disturbed her a lot, but she recognized its aesthetics, uncluttered by material necessity: "Those Hogwarts paintings are such a racket! Ugh! Actually, I prefer silent Madonnas and nymphs."

Consequently, she demanded no-move stained-glass windows for their pleasure palace. She had authoritatively decided that upon their return, they would build a pavilion reserved for their lovemaking. With money from whom, where and how, the mystery remained, and so was it for a number of whimsical ideas she was having since they had arrived in Italy (or was it that she now dared to say them out loud?). If truth had no price, or so they said, it most definitely had a cost, and it did not stop at his hurt pride. He settled for muttering vague approval under his breath, hoping not to kindle her ire, without encouraging her in her fancies either.

When they were on top of one tower or another, Bella admired the view with her head on his shoulder, bobbing it against him, as if she was about to coo. Then she would say trite things about the beauty of the belvedere, they would go back down to the umpteenth restaurant she had chosen, go to a museum, to another church, then to yet another restaurant for dinner, belvedere on the rooftop of the restaurant, gondola, then chaste sleep at the hotel.

That might have been the most absurd aspect of this trip to Voldemort. The quarrel had started because of a sexual problem, but Bella had ungallantly rejected him since the first night, when he had offered a lay. Before going to sleep, she would tenderly stroke his hair every now and then, and lightly kiss him on the forehead. Yet, during the day, she did not think twice before rubbing herself against him, opening one button too many on her shirt, or making innuendo.

He did not quite grasp the goal of her little game. So far, he prudently gave into her caprices. He saw this concession as atonement for his so-called sins as un inattentive man. At the end of their stay, the obligations of everyday life would reinstate their respective roles, as Master and servant (even favourite servant. Even right-hand woman).

For lack of fun or relaxation, (he preferred the days when he was hunting down Potter), he was accumulating clues to his mistress' desires. He brought Bella to a film theatre (an experience she was ashamed to enjoy). He went for ghastly romantic films, which gave him a furious desire to commit an attack, so that he could bring the topic to what she had thought of them.

By reading between the lines of her comments, he gathered that she wanted time and attention. When they would be back in England, he would find a way to squeeze her into his schedule. Affection, which she desired the most ardently, was unknown territory to him, having received so little of it in his life. He was reduced to imitating what he had seen in books and films, trite phrases, and automatic gestures. He placed an arm around her waist, awkwardly kissed her temple, and played with a curl before placing it behind her hear. He insisted on buying her Murano trinkets.

He complimented the clothes she had bought before their excursion, even though, honestly, he was not sure she understood muggle fashion. She was over-dressed: at the museum, someone had once asked them if there was a gala organised in the reception hall. Or, vice-versa, it was the goths and the metalheads that confused her for one of them. He let her. Her whole life, she had been bundled up in a uniform, first at Hogwarts, then, as an adult, in the strict clothing expectations of the aristocracy. Let the girl have fun! He owed her at least that.

Just like when they used to go out biking, she enjoyed the Muggle world license in terms of modesty as much as possible. She found the right to show her knees and elbows, to wear very tight-fitting clothes or a not entirely opaque shirt, to be deliciously scandalous. Never vulgar, she still took a wicked pleasure in only wearing things that would have given her acquaintances an apoplectic stroke.

As for himself, he was pleased that men's wear had become so dull during the nineteenth century. If he had had to give up on black and make more personal fashion choices, he would have ended up murdering someone.

The Most Serene Republic of Venice was no ugly city. As a young man, he had come here to chat with other dark wizards and had kept a rather good memory of the place, though too noisy and sunny for his English temperament. The food was good, the locals nice to him and the architecture breath-taking. In other circumstances, he would have granted himself, say, half a day of strolling around before going back to work.

From now on, his memory of the city would forever be tainted by Bella's childishness, by her taking too many pictures and prattling about frivolous topics instead of telling him what she expected of him. He cultivated his patience. The day would come when she would no longer stand it, and she would tell him about her desires in a straight-forward way.

At the museum, suggestive paintings elicited this comment from Bella:

"Séduis-moi."

"Pardon?" (It was hard to conjure his erotic imagination with this goddamn "tu". Well, she did say she was not opposed to "vous" and "Master" once between the bedsheets. He would have to wait and see if the complete degradation of marks of respect to the rank of fetish would take away their appeal.).

Receiving an order had not been entirely displeased Voldemort, though…

"We are in a new country, another world, an era quite different from the one when we met… I don't know, come up with something!"

The room was empty. A comfortable brown leather bench, facing another lewd painting, was eyeing him.

He pulled her on the couch, then put one hand on her hips, while the other was climbing up her skirt.

Their frolic of yesteryear came back to him, as well as the explicit drawings from sexology books. He wanted to use what he had learnt, at some point. She was wearing a knee-length ruffle skirt, which he suspected she had chosen for this particular purpose. With the pad of his finger, he caressed her through her underwear. She shivered, so he went on, alternating between the inside of her thighs and her vulva. When he could tell she could not stand it any longer, he slipped a hand inside her knickers. She closed her legs and arranged her coat so that doubt would persist for a few seconds if they were caught.

It was a reoccurring pattern, now that he thought of it, this quirky habit to do it in semi-public spaces. They had never been interrupted, but the risk added a je-ne-sais-quoi of adventure.

While he was working on her, his finger went up and down her slit, and Bella was breathing in a more and more erratic manner. She laid her head in the hollow of his neck, her nose rubbing against his shoulder. His left hand went up from the hollow of her hips to her hair, which he pulled just like she used to enjoy it.

To keep up the appearance of a neat and tidy couple in a museum, their legs had to stay parallel. The angle they had adopted was getting more and more uncomfortable for his wrist. Soon enough, she would demand penetration.

"Bella, let's go somewhere else".

Red cheeks and short winded, she looked at him as though he had said an enormity.

"Let's go…"

Going back to the hotel would have ruined the pleasure of exhibitionism (which they did not quite own). The bathroom sign saved his skin.

"This way!"

With a silent hominum revelio and a Muggle Repelling Charm, he made sure the fantasy would not be shattered by a sudden return to reality. Bella placed herself towards the sink. Their eyes met in the great mirror that went from one wall of the room to the other.

He started where they had left off, his right hand titillating her clitoris with more and more daring games of pressure. With the left one he caressed her buttocks, then unbuttoned the back of her dress, which fell after Bella detached the bow at the front. Her forearms against the space between the sinks, she initiated a back-and-forth move with her hips, then took Voldemort's hand inside hers to correct its position. Her eyes closed, she vanished her underwear and bra with a snap of her finger. Her voice hoarse, she whispered "Take me…" with a quavering that announced the moment in which her walls would reach a spasm, irresistible for both of them.

He finally undressed, save for his shirt, and entered her with a satisfaction that was proportional to the torture of waiting. But he was so focused on Bella's pleasure that he was having trouble coordinating it to his. Oh well, if having a mediocre time was the price to pay to be invited into her bed again, he was willing to control himself and prioritise her.

He adjusted his groin's movement to his lover's. He closed his eyes so that the reflection of Bella's disorderly face would not make him scream before her. Electric shocks ran through him every time he hit her core. He bit his lips and breathed hard so he would not let himself go. He hoped Bella was appreciating his efforts. He opened his eyes again. Discomfited, he noticed that unlike him, she was not restraining herself at all. Her sweet face was shamelessly contorting, her lips were trembling, her eyelids fluttering. She could no longer see him in the mirror, she was nothing but moaning and tension about to blossom.

While he was ravishing Bella, whose scream were getting more and more powerful ("Oh yes Tom, take me harder! Fuck me up!"), he thought of their future.

He could make Bella immortal, a dangerous equality, though she loved him too much to hurt him.

He could give up on his, and they could grow old together… no, that was out of the question.

Alternatively, he could go on without her in a few decades time (the thought almost made him go soft).

He did not know what price he was willing to pay to preserve his independence. What a conundrum!

As Bella reached a roaring orgasm, he thought that you definitely never stop working when you are a Dark Lord.

Notes:

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Bellamort is a tough ship to write!

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