Bellatrix and her Master

by SamaraXX

The day Bellatrix becomes engaged to the Lestrange heir, she meets the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, whose name echoes through the pure-blood elite. Drawn to his power and the promise of liberation from societal constraints, Bellatrix embarks soon on a tumultuous 23-year journey as his devoted disciple. Canon Compliant. In Character.

13. The Punisher

Chapter XIII: The Punisher

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The floorboards creaked faintly under Bellatrix's hurried steps as she hastened to rid herself of her bloodstained clothes, every movement accompanied by a faint grimace. The sun, a blinding pinprick on the horizon, cast a pale golden light over the wooden planks. The windows overlooking the park were ajar, allowing a cool breeze to snake its way into the room. She had to move quickly. Once she was ready, she would need to find the Dark Lord, face him, and weave together her plan to explain both her absence and her failure to answer his summons promptly. Already, the gears of her mind were churning feverishly.

The house-elf, a small creature with large golden eyes, appeared cautiously in the room, stepping tentatively toward her mistress.

"Mistress, the Dark Lord came last night. He was looking for you."

"I know," Bellatrix replied breathlessly. "What did you tell him?"

"Meeney said she didn't know where her mistress was."

Bellatrix stood before the mirror, apprehensively studying the aftermath of her pregnancy and labour. The reflection offered no solace: her skin was pallid, almost sickly; her hair, heavy and lank, hung limply without its usual lustre; and dark, heavy circles shadowed her eyes. Tears pricked at their corners, which she angrily wiped away with the back of her hand.

Her stomach had not regained its former shape. It remained slightly swollen, slack, resembling a deflated balloon. A disconcerting sensation lingered between her legs with each uterine contraction, worsening her discomfort. She was bewildered—she had believed that once the child was delivered, everything would return to normal and that these contractions would cease immediately. Trembling, and overtaken by a muted panic, she removed the undergarments she had put on at Andromeda's house and, with horror, discovered them soaked with blood.

The elf wrung her hands, visibly distressed.

"Does Mistress wish Meeney to help her recover more quickly?" she whispered timidly.

"What do you mean?" Bellatrix demanded, her tone sharp with suspicion.

"Meeney knows enchantments to help Mistresses after childbirth."

"Silence, Meeney! Be quiet!" Bellatrix snapped, her eyes wide with alarm.

She strained to listen, ensuring that no one in the house had stirred or overheard the elf's words. With a swift flick of her wand, she cast a Muffliato to guarantee their privacy, then stepped closer to Meeney, kneeling almost to her level.

"How do you know I was pregnant?" she hissed in a low, urgent voice.

"Meeney knows everything that happens in this house, Mistress."

"No one must find out. I forbid you from speaking of this to anyone. Remember, as the wife of the head of this family, you owe me absolute loyalty and obedience."

"Of course, Meeney serves her Mistress. Meeney loves her Mistress very much."

"Don't forget that you once informed Rabastan that the Dark Lord had spent the night here," Bellatrix reminded her coldly.

The elf's ears folded back, resembling those of a frightened kitten.

"Meeney didn't know she wasn't supposed to say it, Mistress," she murmured, her voice trembling with remorse.

"In the future, ask me before you mention my activities to Rabastan or Rodolphus."

The elf nodded fervently, her large eyes shining with worry.

"Good. Now, do you know what to do in my situation?"

A hint of despair seeped into Bellatrix's voice as though she were on the verge of breaking down in tears.

"Of course, Meeney has assisted with all the births of the Lestrange women. With a few enchantments, I can clear the lochia and ease the puerperal contractions."

Lochia? Puerperal contractions? Bellatrix didn't understand the terms the elf used, but an immense wave of relief washed over her as she heard these words.

"Yes, Meeney, let's do that."

"Mistress must lie down on the bed," the elf instructed gently.

Obediently, Bellatrix lay down on the bed. The house-elf slid a cloth under her mistress's body before placing an experienced hand on her abdomen. After a series of intricate gestures, Bellatrix felt a violent contraction that wrenched a cry of pain from her lips. The cloth beneath her became stained with a deep, almost black blood.

"It's done, Mistress," the elf announced soothingly.

"Already? Are there any visible marks on my body? Anything unsightly?" Bellatrix demanded sharply.

"No, Mistress. Aside from these temporary discomforts, Mistress has no notable marks—no stretch marks, no linea nigra, and no varicose veins. Mistress is clearly made to have babies."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

"And my stomach? When will it return to its normal appearance?"

"It has already reduced and will regain its original shape in a few weeks. But Meeney can speed up the process if Mistress wishes."

"Yes, do it, Meeney."

When the elf finished her enchantments, Bellatrix felt the pain dissolve completely, though the fatigue lingered, oppressive and unrelenting. Her stomach now appeared almost flat, but her body was drenched in sweat and blood.

"Shall I prepare a bath for you, Mistress?" Meeney asked, bowing slightly.

"Yes, hurry. And burn those cloths."

Without delay, the elf obeyed, disappearing toward the bathroom with the soiled linens in her arms. Bellatrix remained alone on the bed for a moment, trying to collect herself. Her heart was pounding furiously, and her breathing stayed ragged, as if she had spent hours sobbing. Her body still shuddered with uncontrollable spasms.

Her Mark still prickled—a phantom pain, a sly reminder of her defiance in ignoring her Master. She was terrified.

XxXxXxX

Clean, perfumed, dressed in a perfectly pressed corset gown, with her face and hair enhanced by vanity charms, Bellatrix stood ready to join the Dark Lord.

With a precise motion, she pressed her Mark, receiving immediate permission to Apparate to Headquarters.

She landed in the meeting room, where several wizards were already gathered. Catching her breath, she noted Rodolphus seated at the centre of the table, Rabastan nearby, and other familiar faces: Alecto, Amycus, Lucius Malfoy, Ennius Rosier, and, to her great surprise, her father, Cygnus, sitting directly beside Lord Voldemort. Disciplined as ever, she refused to let the slightest unease show and fixed her gaze on her Master, who presided over the table with an air of commanding authority.

When he saw her materialise in the room, he rose.

Bellatrix immediately stepped forward and knelt at his feet, murmuring in a voice laced with deference:

"Master, forgive my delay."

He didn't answer. Slowly lifting her eyes to him, Bellatrix summoned every ounce of her control to suppress the slightest nervous tic. She worked to make her mind fluid, malleable, while meticulously concealing the countless mental barriers she had erected. She had managed to hide from him what she had discovered in his Pensieve once before. She vowed she would succeed again, this time with even more formidable skill, for the stakes were infinitely higher.

"Where were you?" he asked coldly, motioning for her to rise with a flick of his hand.

She detected a glacial restraint in his tone but replied with steady confidence, "Master, I was being interrogated by the Aurors again."

Lord Voldemort studied her for a moment, his piercing gaze probing as if to shatter the defences she fought to maintain. Then, turning to the men seated around the table, he said:

"You may leave. Rabastan, inform Dolohov and Mulciber that the search is to cease immediately."

"Yes, Master," the younger Lestrange replied before Apparating away.

"Master, my son didn't…" Ennius Rosier began, only to be cut off by Voldemort's imperious gesture.

"Later, Ennius."

The Death Eater bowed respectfully before vanishing with a sharp crack. Bellatrix's father circled the table, his piercing gaze fixed on her, a mix of palpable relief and a hint of unease in his expression. With a brief, awkward gesture, he patted her shoulder and said in a voice laden with poorly concealed emotion:

"It's a relief to see you safe, Bella."

He then turned to Lord Voldemort, bowed deeply, and murmured, "My Lord."

Without waiting for a reply, he too Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Rodolphus and Bellatrix exchanged a glance heavy with coldness and disdain. She noted in passing that his hair had grown slightly and that his face bore the marks of harsh, almost hostile exhaustion. Without a word, he vanished as well. One by one, the remaining Death Eaters followed suit, until Bellatrix found herself alone with the Dark Lord.

If you tell him the truth, she dies, she repeated to herself silently, like a mantra.

"Who were these Aurors? How did they find you?" he asked, advancing toward her almost imperceptibly.

He raised his hand and brushed it lightly along her jawline. Bellatrix flinched, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through her. His touch was gentle, and the crimson gleam of his eyes seemed to open a doorway to a deep, silken world. After the nightmare she had endured that night, Bellatrix longed for nothing more than the comfort of his arms. Yet, an entirely different ordeal awaited her.

"I was on Diagon Alley, completing Narcissa's trousseau for her upcoming wedding," she lied, her chest tightening.

"Without informing anyone? Not Rabastan, not your mother?" Voldemort's eyebrows arched slightly in surprise.

"No, Master."

"You know such behaviour is reckless. Neither you nor any Lestrange is safe from arrest. You are all compromised now."

"I thought my last meeting with the Aurors, in October, was enough to clear my name," she murmured, hoping her tone would convince him. "I assumed I would have a few months of reprieve before they turned their attention to Rabastan or Rodolphus, making it impossible for any of us to leave unnoticed."

Lord Voldemort remained silent for a moment, his gaze scrutinising every flicker of emotion on her face.

"They kept you all night?" he finally asked.

"Yes, Master."

"Who were they? What did they ask you?"

"They wanted to know if I had any information about the Aurors found dead in Rhossili," she replied, holding her breath.

Last May, she and her Master had tracked down three Aurors involved in the assassination of Enguerrand Avery. Hidden in a safehouse in Wales, they had been interrogated meticulously before being left for dead beneath the Dark Mark, gloriously emblazoned in the sky.

"Show me," he murmured, his tone both gentle and unyielding, leaving no room for refusal.

Internally, Bellatrix fought to keep herself from succumbing to panic. This was what she feared most. What she was about to attempt demanded extraordinary skill—perhaps beyond her reach. The challenge was no longer simply to conceal memories, a skill she had honed to the point where she felt confident in her ability to hide the child's birth from him. This time, the task was far more formidable.

She had to create memories.

Not just any memories: they had to be credible, coherent, and robust enough to withstand her Master's ruthless scrutiny. Drawing on the real events of last October, during her lone interview with the Aurors—memories he had already sifted through in her mind—she intended to weave a seamless illusion. But she needed to stretch them across the span of an entire night: subtly altering the Aurors' clothing, adjusting their postures, modulating their tones, varying their questions… Every detail had to feel natural, fluid, and blend imperceptibly between reality and fabrication.

This required an exceptional mastery of thought manipulation—a skill possessed by only a rare few. She had managed to fool the Aurors during that interrogation, but against her Master, she would need even greater finesse and precision.

But there was no time to hesitate or overthink. She had to be ready.

Without the slightest delicacy, Lord Voldemort breached her mind, slipping past her mental barriers with his usual ease. He sifted through the fabricated memories, navigating between truth and lies with ruthless precision. Fortunately, he seemed uninterested in extraneous details; his focus was on finding exact answers. Had the Aurors mentioned Avery? Gringotts? Dumbledore? Was there talk of a traitor? Everything else was ignored.

For Bellatrix, however, every second of his intrusion was a monumental effort. Maintaining the illusion required fertile imagination, unshakable resolve, and unrelenting mental stamina. She had to conjure minute details while grounding them in the firm structure of her real memories.

After a few moments, he withdrew from her thoughts. He was so close to her that it felt as though he were whispering a secret into her ear. His fingers coiled around a strand of her hair, which he lifted to his face as if to inhale its scent.

"You took the time to bathe," he remarked, his tone quiet but laced with menace, "even though I summoned you hours ago. You didn't come running to me. Are you hiding something from me?"

"What do you mean, Master?" Bellatrix asked, thrown off balance by the question.

"Did they harm you?" he pressed, his voice more direct now.

A shiver ran through her. He feared the Aurors might have subjected her to the same degradations their former colleague Maggins had inflicted—groping, violations. Shame washed over her at the thought.

"No, Master," she replied.

Under her black-lined lashes, her gaze remained steady, inscrutable, carefully masking the storm raging within.

"Your memories are… hazy," he said, his eyes locked on her face. "As if you're struggling to recall them. If you're not hiding something from me, then why is that?"

"They kept me awake all night. I might be a bit tired," she offered, fully aware that her explanation sounded less convincing than she'd hoped.

"Really?"

"It's the only explanation, Master," she replied, her tone softer now, almost pleading.

"Do you know how many of my servants I deployed to find you?" he asked, his voice sharp with irritation. "I summoned your husband back from the Mongolian steppes and interrogated your entire family to discover your whereabouts."

"I'm sorry, Master," she murmured, lowering her eyes slightly to conceal her unease.

"No one knew where you were."

"I thought it would take no more than an hour at most," she attempted, her voice a blend of submission and poise.

He stepped back slightly, scrutinising her with a calculating gaze, every movement exuding cold precision and control. Suddenly, he seized her arm and pressed his wand to the Mark.

"What are you doing, Master?" she asked, her voice tinged with tension.

"Where are the items from the trousseau you claimed to have bought for your sister?" he demanded, blatantly ignoring her question.

"I didn't have time to get them. The Aurors apprehended me before I could, Master," she replied, her throat tightening.

"And where on Diagon Alley did they stop you?"

"Between Ollivander's and the apothecary, Master," she said, taking care to sound as convincing as possible.

"At what time?"

"Around five in the afternoon, I think…"

A loud pop echoed in the room as Ethan Rosier materialised before them, a mocking smile stretching across his lips as he took in the scene.

"You called for me, Master?" he said, his tone laced with feigned nonchalance.

"Ethan," Voldemort began, his voice icy, "have you heard anything from your contacts at the Ministry about Bellatrix being arrested yesterday afternoon on Diagon Alley?"

"Master, I questioned all my informants last night. None of them reported such an event. The file on Bellatrix Lestrange is officially closed at the Ministry," Ethan replied confidently, his smile firmly in place.

Lord Voldemort regarded Ethan for a long moment, his gaze sharp and glacial. Then, ever so slowly, he turned back to Bellatrix.

"How do you explain this, Bellatrix?"

"Rosier was dismissed from the Ministry," she responded bluntly. "He no longer has the necessary connections to access confidential information."

"Confidential, Lestrange?" Ethan murmured in a measured tone, his words deliberately chosen. "Curious, Lestrange. Why speak of confidentiality?"

"Because the Aurors don't share sensitive files with failures who can't even hold on to their Ministry positions," Bellatrix spat, her face a mask of blazing disdain.

She made certain every ounce of condescension shone through her expression.

"What are you insinuating, Ethan?" Voldemort asked calmly, though the menace in his voice was unmistakable.

Ethan raised his hands slightly, an ambiguous gesture that teetered between feigned gravity and reluctant submission.

"I merely mean that it's curious how well Lestrange's arrest has been concealed by the Auror Office," he said. "If my informants have reported nothing, perhaps it's because they believe that revealing such information could endanger her life. Perhaps the interrogation needed to remain entirely secret."

"Why would that be?" Voldemort asked, his piercing gaze fixed on Ethan.

Bellatrix's heart began to pound violently.

"As she pointed out, I am no longer an Auror. I no longer have access to sensitive information, Master," Ethan replied with mock humility, his ever-present smile unbroken. "I'm no longer privy to the most confidential files," he concluded with a slight shrug.

In an instant, before Ethan had even finished his slimy monologue, Bellatrix realised two things: he was the traitor, and he intended to frame her as one in his place. Perhaps he had maintained close ties with the Aurors and knew full well that she had never been arrested. To escape his trap, she would have to choose—either reveal the truth and ensure the deaths of her sister and the child, or convince her Master that it was impossible for her to be the traitor.

"Master…" she began, attempting to regain control of the conversation.

"Silence, Bellatrix," Voldemort interrupted coldly. "Continue, Ethan."

"The Aurors made a mistake in attempting to hide her arrest," Ethan said, a calculated smile playing on his lips. "By doing so, they've exposed the fact that this wasn't a routine protocol for minor arrests. The arrest was merely a pretext—a ruse to speak with her directly, away from prying eyes."

"That's absurd!" Bellatrix snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. "I am no traitor! If I had truly collaborated with them, why would I have mentioned the arrest? I'd have concocted an entirely different excuse!"

"An entirely different excuse, Bellatrix?" Voldemort interjected, his tone unreadable.

"I… I mean his ridiculous theory doesn't hold up, Master!" she said, her voice strained but defiant. "He wasn't informed simply because he's no longer part of the inner circles of power. That's all. Besides, he's the one who's likely the traitor! He fits the profile perfectly—his connections with the Ministry, his presence at—"

"Make up your mind, Bellatrix," Voldemort cut in, his voice steady and chillingly impassive. "Is Ethan still in contact with the Aurors or not?"

Bellatrix took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.

"Master, you know I cannot be the traitor," she murmured, her eyes desperately searching for any sign of trust in Voldemort's cold gaze.

"Master," Ethan interjected confidently, "if Rookwood also heard nothing of this arrest, then we're left with two possibilities: either Bellatrix is lying, or the Aurors are deliberately withholding the information."

"I told you everything as soon as I arrived, Master! I've hidden nothing!" Bellatrix protested forcefully.

"The fact that you told me could very well be part of the plan," Voldemort countered, advancing toward her with slow, deliberate steps, his piercing gaze unwavering. "Unlike usual, the Aurors deliberately concealed this arrest from their former colleague, as if your file were too sensitive for him to access. And yet, once again, you emerged unscathed. Once again, free of all suspicion."

"Master, you've seen my memories; they—"

"Leave us, Rosier," Voldemort interrupted, his voice calm yet final.

Ethan hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening as if to argue, but the murderous glint in Voldemort's eyes silenced him immediately. He Disapparated without another word.

A heavy silence filled the room. Voldemort drew his wand with a fluid, almost casual motion and began pacing, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

"Master, last year, when the traitor disabled the protections at the Avery residence, I was locked in your chambers. You yourself said so."

"That's true," Voldemort acknowledged, his tone measured. "And not long ago, you told me the traitor might not be working alone. If you were locked in my chambers, it was because you spent the entire day in my quarters without my permission, the day after the Rosier wedding, and remained there until the evening."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her, his eyes narrowing.

"One thought crosses my mind, Bellatrix: perhaps you were trying to distract me, to leave the way clear for your accomplice? By any means necessary? Even going so far as to meddle in my Pensieve?"

Bellatrix collapsed at his feet, her trembling hands clutching the hem of his robe.

"No, no, no, Master, you know it's not true. I am your most loyal, most devoted servant. It's Ethan who's the traitor. He lies, Master, he lies! He claims my arrest is a sensitive matter, but he's lying!"

"Rookwood didn't report your arrest to me," Voldemort pointed out coldly.

"He works in the Department of Mysteries. That has nothing to do with it," she retorted, desperately searching for an escape.

Silence stretched between them as their gazes locked. An invisible duel raged, a battle of defiance against loyalty. Bellatrix refused to yield; she couldn't believe her Master would give more credence to Ethan Rosier's version than her own.

"Master," she pressed on, "he was present at the Rosier wedding. He has ties to the Aurors, he knows how to bypass protective seals—"

"He's the son of one of my oldest and most loyal Death Eaters, the godson of Enguerrand Avery," Voldemort interrupted sharply. "Would he really have had a hand in his own godfather's murder?"

"Enguerrand found evidence and was about to speak. Perhaps he hesitated too long because Ethan is Ennius Rosier's son, his best friend's child!"

"Bellatrix," Voldemort said, his voice cutting through her argument like a blade, "let me be clear: I am not convinced. Your memories are vague, your delay unexplained, and the Aurors have kept your arrest hidden. Why? If they considered you insignificant, why conceal this information? And if they suspected your allegiance, why release you?"

Bellatrix's panic peaked. Her breathing quickened, and her mind scrambled for a way out.

"They simply have no proof, Master," she stammered, her voice trembling yet resolute. "My interrogation yielded nothing, yet again. Ethan Rosier is the traitor, Master!"

A heavy silence descended, broken only by Voldemort's voice, soft yet terrifying:

"Did you seduce me under orders from the Aurors to extract information, Bellatrix?"

She jolted upright, clinging to his robe, her tear-filled eyes wide with disbelief.

"Master, stop this, you know… you know I love you…"

"Yes, a hollow sentiment designed to lull me," he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm and bitterness.

"No one can fake something this strong, Master. I know you've felt it."

In a desperate gesture, she flung herself against him, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips to his. Tears streamed down her cheeks in torrents, but she didn't care.

Suddenly, she felt herself wrenched violently away from him. Invisible bonds coiled around her, binding her arms and legs. She gasped in shock, stumbling as she tried to cling to him, only to be shoved aside without mercy. She collapsed heavily onto the cold, hard floor.

Her wand flew across the room, drawn to Voldemort's outstretched hand.

"My Lord, what are you doing…? Master!" she cried, panic surging in her voice.

But he was already gone. He had Disapparated, leaving her alone, sprawled across the cold, black tiles of the meeting room.

XxXxXxX

When he returned, long hours had passed, each one marked by consuming dread and fear. The Dark Lord advanced slowly toward his Death Eater, an almost feral, frenzied aura surrounding him with every step. With a fluid wave of his hand, the bonds holding her to the floor vanished.

"Ollivander and the apothecary have been questioned," he announced, his voice vibrating with restrained acidity. "They saw nothing. No arrest, no commotion on Diagon Alley."

"Master…" Bellatrix began, her breath hitching.

"This can mean only two things, Bellatrix: either it wasn't an arrest and you went to them willingly, or you're hiding something else. But, you see, I'm struggling to imagine what could possibly be so important that you'd risk your very loyalty being questioned."

He was right, of course. The doubt was already gnawing at her. Was this the price of saving the baby and Andromeda? Would it be better to confess everything and hope for his forgiveness?

"Master, I beg you, believe me! I am not a traitor!"

A frigid silence fell. Then, with implacable coldness, he commanded:

"Follow me."

He moved toward the entrance to a hidden passage beneath the meeting room. Bellatrix followed reluctantly, each step dragging her deeper into an abyss of unspeakable terror. The passage led to a damp, dark room: the Sanctuary.

There, kneeling on the floor, was Rodolphus, looking worse for wear.

His dishevelled hair partially obscured a face ravaged by exhaustion. Sweat beaded on his temples and trickled down his neck, while his shallow, uneven breathing betrayed his fragility.

"I took the liberty of questioning your accomplice before confronting your version of events," Voldemort said cruelly. "But it seems he needs a little more… motivation."

Bellatrix felt a wave of horror wash over her. The situation was spiralling into a nightmare. Rodolphus remained still, his head bowed, utterly resigned.

"Crucio!" Voldemort hissed mercilessly.

Immediately, Rodolphus writhed in agony, a guttural scream tearing from his lips. His body convulsed violently under the curse's assault, his hands clawing helplessly at the ground in a futile effort to resist.

"Master, please, I beg you, stop!" Bellatrix cried, horrified. "Rodolphus has done nothing wrong!"

Her plea seemed to dissolve into the void. Voldemort did not listen. His marble-like face was etched with a feral, unrelenting hatred.

Desperate, Bellatrix hurried toward him, her trembling hands reaching out.

"Master, stop!" she pleaded again, clutching his arm in a frantic gesture.

The response was immediate and brutal. As soon as her hands brushed his arm, Voldemort lifted the Cruciatus Curse from Rodolphus and, with a single sweeping gesture, sent Bellatrix flying across the room. She crashed heavily to the ground, a muffled cry escaping her lips as sharp pain radiated through her lower abdomen. The invisible wound from her recent childbirth flared violently, and tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

"Are you crying for your dear little husband, Bellatrix?" Voldemort sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Master, I beg you," she replied, her voice cracking, "you cannot believe Rosier's lies. He has always hated me!"

Voldemort took a few measured steps toward her, towering above her, his crimson eyes icy and unrelenting.

"He claims he has always suspected you, Bellatrix. I had time to question several of my loyal followers. And, as it turns out, many of them have grievances against you."

Still on her knees, Bellatrix raised a desperate gaze to him, her hands clenched tightly against the floor.

"They're jealous of me, Master! They've always been jealous!" she cried fervently.

A heavy silence settled over the room. Voldemort crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the sincerity of her words. Then, in an implacable tone, he declared:

"Tell me the truth now, Bellatrix, and I will stop torturing your husband."

"I am not a traitor! Neither am I, nor is Rodolphus!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion. She turned desperately toward her husband. "Tell him, Rodolphus!"

A bitter, almost pained chuckle escaped Rodolphus as he remained kneeling. He lifted his head slightly, revealing a wry smile that contrasted with his face, ravaged by pain and exhaustion.

"You want me to defend you, Bella?" he rasped, his tone biting. "Master, I cannot speak for her, but as for me, I have served you my entire life."

"I sent you on a mission with Greyback for over a year to punish you for your sordid schemes and to keep you away from your wife," Voldemort said, his tone sharp. "Did that not stir any resentment within you?"

"Master…" Rodolphus murmured hoarsely, "I defer to your judgment. I know I erred when I lied about you to take revenge on Bellatrix."

"And I suppose you've heard the rumours about her and me," Voldemort continued, his voice laced with cold sarcasm. "That didn't bother you?"

Rodolphus shifted slightly, trying to meet his Master's gaze despite one eye being so swollen he could barely open it.

"Yes… Master," he admitted reluctantly. "I won't pretend it pleased me. But I don't blame you… It's not my place… Bellatrix… she knows exactly how to get what she wants, no matter the method."

A caustic laugh escaped Voldemort.

"Oh, I was as willing as she was, Rodolphus. She forced nothing on me."

Rodolphus lowered his head again, a trickle of blood accompanying the movement, painting a bright arc on the floor.

"Master, I blame you for nothing," he stammered. "Bellatrix is a poison. But I have not betrayed you."

Leaning against the wall, Bellatrix slid to the ground, utterly defeated. Her breathing shallow, she bowed her head, her trembling hands seeking support on the cold stones. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Voldemort slowly approach Rodolphus.

"Open your mind," he commanded, his voice low and imperious. "Completely. Let me see if you're telling the truth."

Rodolphus didn't hesitate for even a second and obeyed. Voldemort plunged immediately into his thoughts, his expression betraying an intense, unyielding focus. The intrusion was brief. When he withdrew, his face seemed darker, more severe than before.

"You haven't betrayed me, Rodolphus. I'll concede that," he said, a sinister gleam in his eyes. "But you resent me—for Bellatrix, for the deaths of your parents. You have many questions. We will discuss this."

"Master, I…" Rodolphus began, his tone laced with desperation.

"There's no point denying it," Voldemort cut him off coldly. "We'll address it later. For now, you are free of suspicion."

"Thank you, Master," Rodolphus murmured, bending to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes.

"Stand up now," Voldemort ordered sharply. "But stay. You won't want to miss what comes next."

With slow but assured movements, Voldemort turned all his attention to Bellatrix. She was still slumped against the wall, curled in on herself as though she hoped to meld into the stone and escape his gaze. She looked up at him, terrified, her face ravaged by tears and panic.

"Master, I beg you," she whispered, her voice broken and barely audible.

Voldemort stepped toward her, each footfall nearly silent on the cold stone floor.

"This is your last chance to tell me the truth, Bellatrix," he murmured, his voice low and menacing.

Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him! screamed the panicked voice in her mind. But that frantic plea was abruptly silenced by a vivid image: Andromeda, so young, so vulnerable, cradling a baby in her arms. The child was tiny, almost swallowed by a pristine white blanket, its jet-black hair stark against the fabric's immaculate brilliance. The baby wouldn't stop crying.

Bellatrix clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"I did not betray you, Master," she finally breathed, her voice trembling.

Her wide, panic-stricken eyes searched desperately for even the smallest fragment of mercy in his cruel gaze.

A frigid silence stretched between them.

"Wrong answer," Voldemort murmured, almost gently.

Then, with a sharper, cutting tone, he uttered:

"Crucio!"

Pain erupted within her, violent and unbearable, surpassing anything she had ever imagined or endured. Her body writhed uncontrollably on the floor, every muscle screaming in agony, every nerve ablaze. She screamed, her voice shattering the oppressive silence of the room, though it only seemed to heighten her torment.

Her mind began to waver, the very fabric of reality fracturing around her. The edges of the room blurred, her senses distorted by the overwhelming intensity of the pain. The floor beneath her felt as if it were collapsing, leaving her suspended in an endless void where only the relentless waves of suffering existed.

Disjointed images flickered through her mind: a tiny blonde woman in a dim, dreary place; the cries of a baby; the soft curtain of Andromeda's brown hair brushing her face as they bent together over a book on gynomagic; the looming figure of Voldemort. The fragments melded into an incomprehensible mosaic, spiralling into terror and despair.

She felt herself collapsing inward, her mind grasping for an anchor but finding none. The abyss of pain consumed her, leaving only the echo of her screams in its wake.

It lasted an eternity.

"Bellatrix, who is your accomplice?" came a distant, icy voice, nebulous and far removed from her.

"I… I am loyal…" Bellatrix whispered, her strength almost completely gone.

"Crucio!"

The torment resumed—inevitable, relentless, and utterly merciless. The agony was overwhelming, an all-consuming fire that seeped into every fibre of her being, obliterating any hope of respite. She no longer had a voice to scream.

When she finally regained some semblance of awareness, the world around her was blurred and distorted. Male voices echoed above her, distant and spectral, as if coming from another realm.

"Do you feel remorse, Rodolphus?" asked Voldemort's cold, cutting voice.

"No… Forgive me, Master…" Rodolphus replied, his tone gravelly and hesitant. "But now that I think about it, it makes no sense. Siding with the Aurors… after what Maggins did to her…"

"I see you don't have the stomach for this, Rodolphus," Voldemort remarked, his words dripping with scathing irony. "Go home."

"Yes, Master."

Bellatrix barely registered the sharp crack of Disapparition, leaving behind a silence so oppressive it seemed to thrum in her ears. Moments later, she felt a cold hand slide beneath her neck and another beneath her thighs. With effortless precision, Voldemort lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all.

As he moved silently through the room, his low, venomous voice cut through the air:

"Your husband made an important observation. But I know what festers deep within you, what you refuse to admit, even to yourself."

His voice darkened, weighted with cold, intimate cruelty:

"A part of you resents me for allowing you to be taken and defiled by that Mudblood."

"No… Master…" she murmured weakly, raising a trembling hand to rest against his chest.

He did not respond.

XxXxXxX

She felt herself swaying in his arms, too weak to resist or even fully grasp what was about to happen.

The transition was sudden and brutal: an icy shock pierced through her body as she was plunged into water. The impact wrenched a scream from her lips, instantly muffled beneath the surface. Her eyes widened in terror, taking in the black-and-silver tiles around her and the shimmering bubbles rising slowly. It became clear—she was in Voldemort's immense bathtub.

The cold was paralysing. Her arms and legs refused to move, heavy and numb. Her body betrayed her survival instincts, leaving her to sink helplessly to the bottom. Air escaped her lips in a series of bubbles that drifted upward, mocking her plight. Her vision began to dim, and her mind faltered. The searing sensation of water flooding her throat and burning her lungs was unbearable. The world contracted around her, narrowing to this frigid, suffocating agony that dragged her inexorably toward infinite darkness.

She was pulled from the water as abruptly as she had been plunged into it, and pressed against a body that felt warm in comparison to the icy bath. Eyes closed, more exhausted than she had ever been, she clung weakly to the fabric of her Master's robes, gasping for air.

She felt herself slipping further from reality, her mind fraying at the edges.

"Who is your accomplice, if not Rodolphus? Rabastan?"

"My Lord… I love you…"

"You're mocking me now, is that it?" came his cold, cruel whisper.

She was plunged back into the icy water. This time, she no longer had the strength to scream or struggle, even for a moment. With her eyes closed, she let herself sink to the bottom. Everything went black around her.

…

She felt his breath, slightly uneven, close to her face. She inhaled his scent, and it made her let out a faint whimper. It was like coming home after an endless journey through hell.

Then, his mind invaded hers, like a tsunami crashing into a fragile coastal shack, obliterating everything in its path. Doors torn off their hinges. Windows shattered. Furniture splintered. The debris of her consciousness scattered in every direction. And yet, like a second skin, the protection around her memories of Andromeda and the baby instinctively interposed itself between her and her Master. These barriers, like long, organic membranes, slid into place effortlessly, immutable and elusive.

In a way that a certain Ludmilla had once tried to teach her young Master almost thirty years ago, Bellatrix felt her abilities amplifying as she surrendered to what she felt for him. An overwhelming, irrepressible love.

She sensed Lord Voldemort moving through her fabricated memories. The Auror interrogations she had so carefully constructed disintegrated under his piercing scrutiny. In an instant, it all collapsed. The faces she had crafted to be neutral and convincing twisted into grotesque masks, almost clownish. Bulging eyes, mouths stretched into terrifying, drooling grins. One Auror danced absurdly while two others crossed their eyes. The questions, so meticulously devised, devolved into nonsensical, absurd gibberish. Even the room's geometry faltered—walls curved and warped, spiralling in dizzying, impossible ways. Her entire house of cards crumbled, slipping through her fingers like sand, leaving behind only a surreal, ludicrous nightmare.

Suddenly, she felt her Master's hands on her bare skin. But it wasn't a gesture of menace; he was dressing her in a loose, soft garment. One of his robes. The sensation of the gentle fabric against her bruised, aching body brought a strange, unexpected comfort.

A voice murmured in her ear, low and laced with faint amusement:

"Bella, what are you hiding from me? Where were you last night?"

"With you, Master," she whispered, her voice barely audible, too weak to open her eyes.

She wanted him to keep touching her, to keep whispering things in her ear.

"No, you weren't with me," he replied, his voice deceptively gentle.

"I'm always with you, Master," she murmured stubbornly.

A faint sigh, almost weary. A hand rested on her forehead.

"You're delirious," he said simply.

She felt herself being carried again. Her weak, aching body offered no resistance. Slowly, they ascended a narrow staircase. She could feel the chill in the air as she was laid down on a bed—a bed she knew all too well.

It was cold.

She blacked out.

XxXxXxX

When she regained consciousness, Bellatrix found herself chained to a damp, clammy wall, a long shackle restricting her movements. The air was cold, heavy, almost suffocating. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the oppressive darkness, and an icy shiver ran down her spine as she recognised the place: the Sanctuary.

Beside her, a tray rested on the floor, laden with an assortment of carefully arranged provisions. The entire scene was lit by a single, flickering candle, half-burnt, its feeble flame barely piercing the gloom. It reached only as far as her bare feet, leaving the rest of the room swallowed in shadow.

She realised she was dressed in several layers of black cloaks, clearly tailored to fit her. Despite their thickness, they offered no warmth. Her bare feet, pressed against the rough stone, seemed to magnify the biting chill.

A sob broke free, followed by another, until she crumpled into tears, alone in the shadows of a waning reign, her only companion the unyielding despair that reverberated ceaselessly through her mind.

XxXxXxX

Several days passed without a single visitor to disrupt the icy silence that enveloped her. The trays of food were replaced with clockwork regularity, laden with a variety of dishes, yet the hands that delivered them remained unseen. She suspected her Master was behind it, but how could she be sure? Never had she glimpsed a house-elf in the corridors of his headquarters.

Each day, a bucket of soapy water would appear, accompanied by a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a chamber pot that emptied itself after use. Freshly laundered robes and cloaks, resembling those worn by her Master but tailored and shortened to fit her, were also provided. This was the extent of the comfort she was afforded.

The damp, rough stone floor bit into her skin, adding a constant, dull pain to her unrelenting discomfort. The uneven surface of the stone wall she was chained to made it impossible to lean against for long without inviting a fresh wave of agony. The room's sole piece of furniture, a crude wooden bench she had often sat on when the Dark Lord taught her forbidden spells, was beyond her reach, positioned on the other side. The chains that bound her restricted her every movement.

Each day, the small candle that partially illuminated the room was replaced with an identical one, casting her shadow—hunched and desolate—against the damp walls.

Bellatrix felt the pain from childbirth and the tortures she had endured slowly subsiding. But her body remained heavy, exhausted, incapable of full recovery. Each night, she slipped into an uneasy sleep, fractured by nightmares and physical discomfort.

But more than her body, it was her heart that suffered. An invisible weight pressed down on her, suffocating her. She was losing hope.

XxXxXxX

He came to see her eventually, one day. Or perhaps one evening. She had been locked up for twelve days. She'd counted every candle replaced. Every meal tray left behind. Every bucket of water that appeared.

When she saw him, she crawled towards him as far as the chain binding her would allow.

"Master," she said, her voice trembling, tears glistening in her eyes. "You've come."

She looked up at him, her face etched with hope, but also with a fear she couldn't suppress. He stood impassive, towering above her. His gaze was unwavering.

"Where were you on the night of 29th August, Bellatrix?" he asked, his tone unyielding.

"I was being questioned by…"

A fleeting but searing sensation flared through her body. She jolted, her breath catching.

"Stop," he interrupted sharply. "I've seen enough to know it was a lie. You were not being interrogated by the Aurors that night. At least, not in the way you led me to believe."

Bellatrix felt her shoulders sag under the crushing weight of her failure.

"No, Master," she murmured, lowering her head.

"Where were you?"

"I didn't betray you," she blurted hastily.

"I might believe you more if you told me where you were."

She had no other plan. Her mind scrambled for an escape, but none presented itself.

"I… I can't tell you," she whispered at last.

His eyes narrowed, his tone turning icy.

"Pardon me?"

She swallowed, her hands trembling.

"I… I can't tell you."

"Why?"

She remained silent. One second. Two. She closed her eyes, digging her fingers into the cold floor.

And then the sentence fell, and it lasted for hours.

"Crucio."

XxXxXxX

When she regained consciousness, she had no idea how many days had passed, but one certainty struck her immediately: something had changed. The Sanctuary, usually cloaked in ominous shadows, was now bathed in a harsh, pallid light that revealed every detail of the room.

Everything was still there, the familiar objects bearing witness to the same grim routine: a meal tray overflowing with food, a bucket of soapy water, a half-burnt candle. But her gaze locked instantly on the scene unfolding before her.

In the centre of the room, bound and gagged in a chair, was Narcissa. Her clear blue eyes were wide with terror, and her frail figure trembled under the weight of silent fear.

"Cissy!" Bellatrix cried, her throat tightening with sudden nausea.

Behind her sister stood the tall, slender figure of Lord Voldemort, dominating the scene. An almost imperceptible smile played on his lips—cruel and calculated—while his glowing red eyes remained fixed on Bellatrix, unblinking.

"My Lord… What… What are you doing?" she stammered, her voice trembling, barely audible.

"You must choose, Bellatrix. Your sister… or your secret," he declared, his tone unyielding.

"No, Master, I beg you…" she pleaded, her breath hitching.

The spell struck like a whip crack.

"Crucio!"

A scream tore through the air, but it wasn't Bellatrix who was in pain. Before her, Narcissa, frozen in a posture of unbearable agony, writhed under the curse's grip. Her bound hands clenched, her trembling body seemed ready to break, and her face, flushed red with torment, bore a silent plea—made all the more harrowing by the gag muffling her cries.

"Master, no! I beg you!" Bellatrix shouted, her face streaked with uncontrollable tears.

Voldemort's gaze didn't waver, unrelenting in his cruelty.

"Where were you on the night of 29th August?" he asked, keeping the torture on Narcissa without pause.

"Nowhere! Nothing that should concern you!" she cried in despair.

He tilted his head slightly, a glint of disdain flashing in his hellish eyes.

"If that were true, you would have told me by now," he replied, his voice merciless.

Narcissa's muffled screams grew more desperate, more unbearable.

"STOP!" Bellatrix screamed.

"All you have to do is tell me the truth, Bella, and this will end."

She was about to speak. She couldn't let her little sister endure this torment. But to tell the truth was to condemn Andromeda. To condemn the child. His child.

Voldemort lifted the curse, watching his Death Eater with a glacial stare, a cruel glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"The game is over. Either you tell me the whole truth, or Narcissa dies."

Her heart pounding wildly, Bellatrix frantically tried to think of another excuse, another way out. He couldn't ask her to choose between her two sisters. And yet, that was exactly what he was doing, though he hadn't realised it.

"You have three seconds, Bellatrix."

To speak was to save Narcissa, the innocent victim, sweet and loyal, the sister closest to her, their parents' favourite.

"One."

To stay silent was to save Andromeda, the one she had shared everything with, the one who had seen and understood her despair, the one who had agreed to protect the child despite the dangers, despite everything. The one who believed the child was her sister's, fathered by the man she had loved. But Andromeda was also the one who had left.

"Two."

To stay silent was to save their baby.

"Three… Avada Kedavra!"

Bellatrix's scream, like that of a wolf in agony, tore through the air. She saw Narcissa's small blonde head slump forward, and something within her shattered completely. It was as if she had lost her hearing, her sight.

She couldn't move. Everything was grey. Lifeless.

Something warm enveloped her empty, lifeless mind.

Cold hands brushed her cheeks, a faint "hush" reached her ears, the barely-there pressure of lips against hers, and the darkness of the room engulfed her once more. She felt Lord Voldemort withdraw from her mind, leaving her gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. She tried to push him aside, desperate to see her sister behind him, but there was nothing. No chair. No Narcissa. The Sanctuary had returned to its usual oppressive state—dark, damp, and icy.

Her body still quaked with tremors and spasms as the realisation struck her, horrifying and yet utterly relieving.

It had been a manipulation of her mind.

The Dark Lord had turned away, his head tilted back towards the ceiling, eyes closed, arms hanging at his sides. He exhaled slowly, clearly irritated and furious.

"What are you hiding from me?" he bellowed, almost more to himself than to his servant kneeling on the floor.

XxXxXxX

Weeks passed. In complete isolation.

She lay there, dazed, her eyes fixed on the damp wall, letting time slip away, drop by drop. Every bead of moisture sliding down the uneven stone, faintly illuminated by the flickering candlelight, became an eternity to watch.

Each day, she repeated to herself: "If he comes, I'll tell him everything. It's not worth it. I should never have kept this baby."

The thoughts haunting her grew darker, almost unbearable. The baby consumed her mind. She imagined killing it with her own hands. Throwing it in a bin like rubbish. Leaving it for wolves, though she knew there were no wolves where she lived. Or even handing it over to that Carpathian vampire she had encountered on a mission. At least he would devour it in seconds. It would all be over.

These images overwhelmed her, brutal and absurd, fuelled by a growing hatred for the baby she had chosen to keep. A hatred she didn't fully understand but which gnawed at her, deeply and inexorably.

XxXxXxX

"Stand up," commanded a cold voice.

Bellatrix had been deep in one of the meditations she had learned about in Ludmilla Thenn's trilogy. In this state of mindfulness, she could drift for hours, making the days and nights pass more quickly. Returning to reality was always a slow and painful process.

Growing impatient at her lack of response, Lord Voldemort sighed and lowered himself to her level, lifting her into his arms. Bellatrix let out a groan. Her entire body ached, stiff and battered from remaining in uncomfortable positions on the cold, hard floor.

As he carried her, Bellatrix opened her eyes and studied his smooth, pale face. He looked irritated, tense. It felt as though she hadn't seen him in months. A strange, indefinable sensation stirred in her chest—a mix of affection and tenderness.

She feared he had devised new, unbearable torments for her, like the mental manipulation that had forced her to choose between Narcissa's life and Andromeda's.

He brought her, once again, to his bathroom, located on the lower floor of his quarters. Bellatrix protested weakly, the memory of being plunged into the icy water of the large bathtub flashing through her mind. He had pushed her to the brink of drowning.

But to her surprise, he set her down with unexpected care on a chair placed at one end of the tub. The water there was shallow, swirling with soapy currents that sent bubbles drifting into the warm, fragrant air of the room.

Warmth. A gentle, marvellous heat. She hadn't felt anything like it in months.

He crouched before her and began to undo the layers of cloaks she was wearing, peeling them away one by one until he reached her sleeves, which he slid off each arm. Bellatrix, her muscles stiff and unresponsive from inactivity, slowly freed her arms and instinctively drew them against her chest.

He ignored her feeble attempts to preserve a semblance of modesty and lifted her again, placing her in the water near the edge of the swirling, soapy current. Bellatrix's mind remained foggy, still trapped in the deep torpor induced by her meditations. Yet she wasn't so numb as to miss one crucial detail: her Master had not used his wand to move or undress her.

No enchantment diverted his attention; on the contrary, his hands remained firmly on her body. And then, without a word, he began to wash her himself.

She felt lost, unsettled. Overwhelmed by an infinite sadness. For a moment, his gaze met hers, but he quickly looked away.

"Tilt your head back," he ordered, his voice as cold as ever.

Bellatrix obeyed, sliding further into the tub until she lay fully submerged, her long black hair fanning out around her in the water. She placed her hands on the edge of the tub to steady herself against the slow, rhythmic motion of the whirlpool. She felt so weak that even its gentle currents seemed capable of carrying her away.

When her Master's hands plunged into her hair, she closed her eyes, a shiver of uneasy pleasure coursing through her. She suspected this was merely another of his many games, another refined torment that only he could devise. Soon enough, she would regret this false intimacy, this deceptive gentleness. If he showed such tenderness now, it was only to make the violence to come all the more unbearable.

But, at that moment, his hands were remarkably delicate, softly stroking her hair and cradling her head in his palms. One hand remained beneath her neck, holding her head above water, while the other drifted slowly down her body, brushing briefly against her breasts, the tips barely breaking the surface. The touch was fleeting.

Soon, he shifted her upper body against him and began to methodically wash every inch of her skin. He seemed utterly indifferent to the water soaking the floor or his own robes, which clung to his drenched body.

When he was done, he lifted her again, further saturating his garments, and placed her back in the chair where she had sat earlier. This time, he used his wand to dry her, as well as himself, with precise, unhurried motions, free of any roughness.

Then, he handed her a fitted black dress with a corset—one of her robes.

"Can you manage to dress yourself?" he asked in a neutral tone.

"Yes, Master…" she murmured, nodding.

Each day, she forced herself to put on the freshly laundered cloaks that were brought to her. It took her some time, but she persisted.

Without a word, he stood motionless, watching her, making no effort to assist. When she was finally dressed, he stepped closer.

"And your hair?"

She frowned slightly, a flicker of annoyance at his little game.

"For what purpose, Master?"

"I want you presentable."

"I use a vanity charm."

"Which one?"

She gave him the name of the spell. With a wave of his wand, her hair swept up into a perfect bun atop her head, with soft strands escaping in an elegant, cascading effect. She had never achieved such a polished result on her own.

"Are you hungry?" he asked abruptly.

"A little…" Bellatrix replied, wary.

Her fear grew as her clarity returned. Not knowing what he was planning, what he intended to inflict upon her, was becoming unbearable.

"Can you walk?"

Bellatrix pushed herself to her feet, but the habit of being restrained made her stumble forward, directly into the Dark Lord's arms. He held her there for a moment before setting her upright with firm precision.

"Come now, Bellatrix, you're stronger than that. Try again."

This time, she managed one step, then another.

"Good. Drink this potion—it will help you regain your strength."

He pulled a small purple vial from one of his robe pockets and handed it to her. Bellatrix knew she shouldn't trust him; the liquid could be poison, a drug to throw her into a delirium, awaken dark memories, or inflict unspeakable pain. Yet, without thinking further, she swallowed it. She no longer had the strength to resist.

Taking her hand, he led her toward the narrow staircase that climbed to the kitchen on the upper floor. As always, the table in the centre of the room was heaped with a feast of dishes. Bellatrix sat, still sore but a little less stiff, and helped herself to whatever appealed to her. She wasn't hungry. Though the comfort of the Sanctuary remained sparse, the food provided to her was always plentiful and flavourful.

Like a silent shadow, Lord Voldemort took a seat across from her, watching her eat with his arms crossed, saying nothing.

Intrigued, she raised an eyebrow.

"What are you going to do to me?" she dared to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

He gave her a cruel smile.

"What makes you think I'm going to do anything at all?"

Bellatrix gestured vaguely at the space between them.

"Nothing is normal here."

"Sharing a meal is something we've done often," he replied calmly. "The only abnormality is your refusal to tell me the truth."

Bellatrix lowered her eyes. She wasn't even sure why she kept silent anymore. Her heart, dry and battered, felt miles away from Andromeda and the child. There was no space left for them in the bleak, barren world her life had become.

"That isn't the matter at hand today," Voldemort added.

Bellatrix instinctively raised her head, startled.

"Your parents have been pestering me for weeks to see you. I'll take you to them, and you'll have the chance to reassure them about your condition."

A confusing emotion stirred in Bellatrix's heart. Her parents? Was she heartless for admitting that she hadn't thought of them once during her captivity? She had never imagined they might have worried about her. One question lingered: what attitude did Lord Voldemort expect from her?

By the time she had finished her meal, the potion's effects had taken hold. She felt strong enough to walk almost normally. Rising to her feet, she faced the Dark Lord. He stepped closer, and as he wrapped his arms around her, they Disapparated together.

XxXxXxX

Druella and Cygnus Black stood hand in hand at the centre of their parlour when Bellatrix and Lord Voldemort appeared silently, locked in what seemed an almost intimate embrace. The Black family parlour remained exactly as Bellatrix remembered it, but the stark white light flooding the room dazzled her. It had been so long since she had seen daylight. Through the frosted windows, she caught sight of a thin layer of snow resting on the sill. Her dazed eyes then fell on a sparkling Christmas tree standing in the corner. So, December had arrived. Three months. Three long months spent in the Sanctuary.

As soon as they appeared, the Dark Lord released her and turned to face her parents, who instinctively let go of each other's hands.

"My Lord," Cygnus greeted with a slight bow.

Druella said nothing, offering only a discreet nod.

"My dear friends, I have brought your daughter, as you requested. Embrace your parents, Bella."

Bellatrix hesitated, taking a tentative step forward. She didn't know how to react; they were not a demonstrative family. The same awkwardness was evident on her parents' faces, but, following Voldemort's implicit command, they embraced stiffly, their movements clumsy and mechanical.

"I'm glad to see you, Bellatrix," murmured Cygnus in a measured tone, his piercing gaze scrutinising his daughter.

Bellatrix had no idea what she looked like; she hadn't seen her reflection in months.

A wild idea crossed her mind: to cry in front of them, confess that she was a prisoner, and beg them to save her, like a little girl before her parents. But the imposing presence of her Master, standing behind her, crushed the thought as quickly as it had come. She was no longer their daughter; she was a Death Eater.

"How are you?" Druella asked, her voice soft but detached.

"Well… well, Mother," Bellatrix replied, forcing a smile.

Lord Voldemort had stepped forward slightly, his sharp gaze fixed on Bellatrix. She could easily detect the cruel glint in his eyes. The situation clearly amused him. The two Blacks, visibly uneasy, exchanged nervous glances between their daughter and the Dark Lord.

"We haven't seen you in months," Druella continued, her words a hurried whisper. "We were terribly worried."

"Bellatrix has taken up residence with me recently, to better serve me. Isn't that right, Bellatrix?" Voldemort said in a tone of mock lightness.

"Yes, that's true," she replied quickly. "The Dark Lord and I have been working on complex matters together."

Voldemort smiled, evidently pleased with her response.

"You see? She's perfectly well," he concluded, turning back to her parents.

Druella deliberately ignored the Dark Lord and stepped closer to her daughter, gently taking Bellatrix's hands in hers.

"Bellatrix, you only have to say the word. You can stay here. You don't have to live in hiding with a man you're not married to… if you don't want to."

Bellatrix shook her head firmly. It was bold of her mother to say such a thing, but it was also dangerous—and foolish.

"Mother, I'm fine. The Dark Lord doesn't force me to do anything."

Lord Voldemort approached Bellatrix and slipped an arm around her waist with insolent ease, his thumb brushing over the curve of her breast.

"Pay no attention to the absurd rumours some of my more talkative followers may have spread," he said with a dazzling smile, though the hand resting just below her chest strongly suggested otherwise.

The provocation, blatant and intentional, did not escape Cygnus or Druella. Their expressions darkened immediately, but neither dared to speak out. After all, this was the Dark Lord. In the privacy of their home, they could fume over their daughter's perceived disgrace and the family name being compromised, but confronting him directly was futile.

Bellatrix, for her part, was surprised by her Master's behaviour. He was not usually so vindictive or openly provocative. But her parents' insistence must have displeased him. If they had pressed their request to see her as though the Dark Lord owed them something, it had likely stirred his ire.

"Don't worry about your daughter; she's in good hands," Voldemort added, his tone laced with biting irony.

Bellatrix's parents bowed their heads in silence. Though they appeared somewhat reassured by their daughter's seemingly decent condition, their expressions betrayed a restrained bitterness at the Dark Lord's brazen impertinence.

XxXxXxX

Back at Headquarters, Bellatrix kept her eyes tightly shut, clinging to her Master as though her life depended on it. When the familiar dampness of the clammy stone walls reached her senses and their musty scent filled her nostrils, she broke into sobs.

"Master, I beg you, don't leave me here."

Voldemort glanced down at her.

"I still don't know who you're working for—the Aurors, Dumbledore, or some other hidden enemy. Perhaps you're guarding a secret. But if there's one thing no one could accuse you of, it's a lack of fervent devotion, regardless of its object."

Bellatrix opened her eyes, her gaze imploring as she looked up at him.

"If you still thought I was the traitor, you'd have killed me by now."

He raised an eyebrow, his face as unreadable as ever.

"You would be willing to kill your own sister. You turn down opportunities for freedom, even when they're handed to you on a silver platter. So tell me: where does your loyalty truly lie, Bellatrix?"

"My loyalty belongs only to you," she murmured with desperate sincerity. "I would never have accepted my parents' offer if it meant abandoning you."

A cold smile ghosted across the Dark Lord's lips.

"You give me nothing that warrants my trust, Bellatrix. I see no proof of your loyalty. Every sign, every action, suggests you're playing a part, perhaps from the very beginning."

Bellatrix, incandescent with despair, rose onto the tips of her toes, her movements fervent. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, her lips pleading where words failed. After a few moments, he returned her kiss, though it was almost reluctant.

"Could anyone feign something like this?" she whispered, her lips barely parting from his.

"Lust?" he replied, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Love!"

"History is full of men and women who betrayed those they claimed to love most. Just ask the Bloody Baron."

"What?"

"He killed the woman he cherished above all else. The blood he carries for eternity is hers. Love is merely a refrain, endlessly recycled in insipid fairy tales and mawkish ballads. And now, it echoes here, between you and me. I've never desired your love, Bellatrix, only your loyalty. Love is a weakness—fickle and capricious more often than not."

"Not mine," Bellatrix retorted. "I am loyal to you for life, but I'm also hopelessly in love with you, no matter what you do to me. There is no limit to what I feel for you."

Lord Voldemort burst into bitter laughter, his derisive chuckle echoing as he rolled his eyes skyward.

"Your love is utterly useless to me. It doesn't stop you from betraying me."

"I beg you, don't leave me here…"

"And why should I do such a thing, Bellatrix? Do you believe you've earned the right to go home?"

"I don't want to go home. My home is wherever you are. Let me stay in your quarters. I don't have my wand; I couldn't escape even if I wanted to."

"Once again, Bellatrix, why should I grant your request? What could I possibly gain from having your traitorous face wandering through my rooms?"

"Because I could take care of you, sleep beside you, make love to you every day. You want it as much as I do."

"'Make love?'" he repeated mockingly. "Is that what you call what we shared?"

Bellatrix flushed slightly, her gaze dropping, a wave of shame washing over her.

"Call it what you like…"

"So, failing as a warrior, you propose to become my whore, is that it? Do you really imagine you still hold any appeal to me?"

"Master… If you think those insults can hurt me, then you still don't understand me. There is nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you to lay your hands on me."

"Except tell me the truth…"

She lowered her head, shame gripping her once more, but quickly steeled herself. The thought of him leaving her alone in this squalid place terrified her.

In a final, desperate attempt, she kissed him again. To her surprise, he returned the kiss, his hands moving over her body with a faint trace of urgency.

She felt the familiar vertigo of Apparition, and when they reappeared, it was in the Dark Lord's bedroom.

"Whores don't work for free," he declared coldly. "Consider this my payment for your services. But if you fail to satisfy me, you'll go back to sleeping in the Sanctuary."

Without a hint of arrogance, Bellatrix knew she would satisfy him. He knew it as well as she did. Between them, there had never been room for anything but pleasure. She knew him intimately now, every nuance of his desires, every touch that could drive him to the brink of madness.

She kissed him again, and she felt the tension rise between them—a fiery, almost desperate passion. With an impatient movement, he undid his robes, gently urging her toward the bed. She hurriedly pulled her dress over her head, and soon they were both down to their undergarments.

Despite his earlier words, she could feel the undeniable evidence of the appeal she still ignited in him, pressed insistently against her.

A whimper escaped her against his mouth. Their kisses grew messy, frantic, as he slid her knickers down her legs. She helped by bending her knees, letting the fabric tangle around her ankle. His lips moved to her neck, trailing downward, hot and hungry, towards her breasts. He closed his warm, eager mouth over her breast, his arms wrapping beneath her, snaking up to cradle the back of her neck.

With a movement made clumsy by urgency, she tugged down his underwear, revealing the hardness of his arousal pressing between them. Her nimble fingers traced along its length. Abandoning her nipple, now exquisitely sensitive from his mouth, he repositioned himself, their eyes meeting—breathless, taut with anticipation. Feeling their shared desperation, she wasted no time, guiding him to her entrance, and he thrust into her in one swift motion.

It was her favourite position: beneath him, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, their bodies pressed together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Their kisses were relentless, charged with raw intensity and devoid of any pretence. Nothing was feigned. He wasted no time with teasing or calculated slowness; every movement was deep, passionate, and desperate, as if in a furious attempt to draw even closer to one another.

He groaned against her lips, unrestrained.

Bellatrix felt the familiar urge rise within her—the need to tell him everything: that she had missed him, that she loved him, that she would never abandon him. But she knew those words would be meaningless, misplaced in this moment. Instead, she surrendered completely to the pleasure, crying out in ecstasy, embracing the fervour of his passionate thrusts.

He caught her hands, intertwining his fingers with hers, and slowly pinned them above her head.

"Happy to be a whore, Bellatrix?"

"Yes, Master," she replied without a second thought.

And then, as he had done before, he broke into her mind with savage force. The immense, cold wave of his presence, filled with fury and darkness, crashed over her mercilessly, sweeping away everything in its path.

But this time, Bellatrix's mind was a fortress. Impenetrable. Even as intimately connected as they were, she resisted. It should have been impossible—resisting her Master. Yet, as he tore through her defences without even noticing them, he kept losing himself in what lay beyond: the vastness of her love for him.

She felt his body shudder as he reached his climax inside her. He collapsed against her damp skin, panting, though his breath was already slipping away. A frustrated growl escaped him, and then he said:

"As the good whore you are, I should let all my Death Eaters take you, one by one."

"Master…"

"Don't call me 'Master.' You've lost that privilege."

He pulled away from her abruptly, sitting up and hurriedly dressing. His movements were erratic, nervous, almost trembling.

"From this moment on, you are no longer in my service."

He grabbed his cloak, pulling it on with a quick, precise motion, before seizing Bellatrix's hand and dragging her at a brisk pace through the corridors, her body still completely bare. She was too shaken by the brutal intrusion into her mind, too stunned by the torrent of conflicting emotions surging through her heart, to utter a single word.

Her thoughts were clouded, unable to focus on anything but the sensation of his semen trickling between her thighs. A sudden thought struck her like a bolt of lightning: she hadn't taken a contraceptive potion. Coldly, a dark resolution gripped her, visceral and unyielding. If she fell pregnant again, she would tear the foetus from her own body herself.

She clenched her jaw, overwhelmed by a wave of hatred and regret. Keeping the other child had already cost her everything.

Lord Voldemort was slipping from her grasp. He was no longer the cold, impassive figure she knew so well. His fury vibrated in every movement, every glance. All his schemes had failed; all the physical and psychological torment he'd inflicted had been for nothing. His control, usually absolute, was faltering.

When they reached the passage leading to the Sanctuary, he came to an abrupt stop before a rough, unyielding wall, devoid of any opening. With a careless flick of his hand, he dispelled the wall's opacity. The surface became transparent, revealing a passage through the wall that led directly to the Sanctuary. Above them, the ceiling vanished as well, opening a clear view to the grand meeting hall on the first floor. From now on, the interior of the Sanctuary was fully visible from the meeting hall above, offering a commanding view of everything that occurred within.

With a firm grip, he dragged Bellatrix across the threshold and secured her once again to the far wall, where the chain she so despised awaited her. She winced as the cruelly familiar echo of the lock's clinking reverberated around her wrists and ankles.

When he was finished, he placed a hand around her neck and said:

"From the meeting hall up there, I'll let all my men watch. They'll be free to line up, one by one, to take you—wherever they want, however they want, and as many times as they please. I'll make sure to tell them they have full permission. Perhaps by the hundredth cock, you'll finally learn to be a little less ungrateful."

To say that Bellatrix was shocked would have been an understatement. The scene was horrifying. From where she was chained, she had a direct view of the meeting hall above—a balcony-like vantage point on the first floor, offering a perfect panorama of the stage below. The torches mounted on the walls, meticulously positioned by Voldemort himself, cast their full light onto her, as though to glorify the main character of the grotesque performance he was about to orchestrate.

Paradoxically, the macabre extravagance of the setup almost reassured her. The exaggerated theatrics of it all revealed a crucial detail: he was trying, once again, to terrify her. This realisation, though fragile, instilled in her a sliver of confidence.

She turned her eyes to him. He stood close, an imposing and restless figure, his body thrumming with intense anger. A brutal frustration radiated from him—the frustration of a wizard with boundless power, infuriated by his inability to solve a seemingly simple enigma.

But beneath that seething rage, something else flickered, more subdued, almost imperceptible. Deep within his blood-red eyes, a faint glimmer shone. It was the look of a man wounded, betrayed by the one he had elevated above all others.

"Please… you don't want to do this."

"Oh, care to wager on that, Bellatrix?" he sneered, his tone venomous.

"You don't like sharing what belongs to you."

"You no longer belong to me," he retorted coldly. "You said it yourself—you're happy to be a whore."

"I'm happy to be your whore," she corrected.

He stared at her for a moment, his impassive expression barely masking the intensity of his fury.

"Enough talk," he murmured. "Who shall I call first? Greyback? Your dear husband claims he's better endowed than a centaur. Would that please you, Bellatrix? Being taken by a wild, mangy werewolf?"

"You know it wouldn't, Master," she replied weakly.

The slap came before she even realised what was happening. The impact echoed through the room. The force of the blow knocked the breath from her, but it was the shock more than the pain that froze her. He had never raised a hand to her before.

"Don't call me 'Master,'" he growled. "I've told you—you've lost that right."

Slowly, Bellatrix raised her head, the sting of the slap radiating across her cheek. She met his gaze and saw what she already suspected: he had taken pleasure in hurting her.

"Why do you strike me, Master?" she asked, a hint of defiance in her voice.

A second slap, even more brutal, made her stagger. This time, the pain was so sharp she nearly lost consciousness. She smiled as she tasted the blood pooling at the corner of her lips.

"Would you prefer someone else? Lucius Malfoy, perhaps?" he continued, his tone cutting. "We could make your sister comfortable upstairs. What do you think?"

"Certainly not. You're the only one I want," she replied bluntly, her gaze shining with genuine desire.

"That's a lie," he spat. "You like fucking your husband, don't you? That's why you had your ovaries destroyed back then. You just couldn't wait to let good old Rodolphus have you."

His words knocked the air out of her. She stood frozen, unable to reply immediately. She had never thought of it that way. At the time, she hadn't even dared to hope she might one day regain her Master's intimacy. She had yielded to Rodolphus out of weariness, out of resignation.

But something insolent, almost audacious, stirred within her.

"You've only yourself to blame," she said, her voice cold and hard. "If you'd annulled the marriage instead of waiting for that incompetent Reginaldus to handle it, I would have been yours. Only yours."

He stared at her, his gaze hardening further.

"Fine, choose, Bellatrix, or I'll summon Greyback," he said, his nonchalant tone laced with menace.

"You, Master."

The third slap was harsher still. This time, she hadn't meant to call him that; it was a reflex, deeply ingrained.

"Ethan Rosier, then?" he suggested, a cruel smile curving his lips. "I've often seen in his thoughts what he'd like to do to you. Would that tempt you, Bellatrix?"

She shook her head fiercely.

"It's him—the traitor."

Voldemort frowned, irritation etched on his face.

"You admitted you were hiding something from me," he reminded her. "And now you expect me to believe it has nothing to do with the Aurors?"

"If Rosier didn't hear about my arrest, it's because… because I wasn't arrested."

"Then why lie to me?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "How could you even think, for a moment, that such a lie would work?"

This time, there was no trace of amusement in his tone.

A heavy silence fell between them. They stared at each other for a long time, like two adversaries on the verge of lunging at one another.

"ANSWER ME!" he roared.

Bellatrix flinched, thick tears spilling from her eyes.

Another silence followed. Long. Terrible.

She heard a sigh.

"Greyback, then?" he said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp edge to his voice.

With a swift motion, he seized her arm, his icy fingers gripping her with such force that she trembled. He pressed his wand to the Dark Mark, his cruel gaze gleaming with a sadistic light.

For the first time, Bellatrix felt a visceral fear seize her. This time, he seemed truly ready to carry out his threats.

"My Lord…" she stammered, terrified. "I… I can't tell you anything, but I am loyal to you."

A pop echoed through the room, and Bellatrix closed her eyes in apprehension. Her heart pounded furiously, and she didn't dare face what was about to come.

"I'm placing her under house arrest," Voldemort declared in an icy, detached voice, as though he were reciting a simple administrative formality. "Under your watch," he added, turning to the person who had just appeared. "Her wand will remain in my possession. If she attempts to escape, you have my permission to execute her. Her and her entire family. Her parents, her sister… even the one foolish enough to marry a Mudblood."

Bellatrix opened her eyes, her breathing shallow, as her mind struggled to process the horror of his words.

"Do you understand, Rodolphus?" Voldemort asked, his authoritative tone leaving no room for doubt.

"Yes, Master," Rodolphus replied, bowing his head in obedience.

The Dark Lord turned back to Bellatrix. He was once again cold and unreachable.

"We will not meet again, Bellatrix," he declared.

"No, wait, Master… please," she begged, her voice fractured by sobs.

"Crucio!"

The pain erupted within her, a devastating wave that overwhelmed her body and mind. Every fibre of her being screamed, and she joined that scream with a piercing wail that echoed throughout the room.

"M-My Lord…" she managed to gasp between spasms, her voice trembling.

Desperately, she tried to summon the strength to stop him, to convince him. He moved closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered in a tone so low that even Rodolphus couldn't hear:

"Keep your secrets, you ungrateful wretch. You make me regret every decision I've made regarding you."

Her head slammed hard against the wall behind her, eliciting a muffled groan. The room seemed to spin around her, the impact leaving her dazed and unsteady.

"Unchain her and lock her in Lestrange Manor," he ordered Rodolphus coldly, not even sparing him a glance.

Then, without another word, he left the room, leaving behind muffled sobs, a slightly bewildered man, and a broken heart.

---

To be continued.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I look forward to your comments—they bring me so much joy and keep me motivated! Thank you to everyone reading my work!

SamaraXX