Chapter 1

BOY: On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?

Her cunt was afire, spread and glistening in the moonlight with the evidence of her desire. The chanting surrounded her like a frigid wind, and her nipples responded accordingly, but it was all superficial: He was there. He, at the center of her universe, approached, and looked down on her with something akin to lust. If he could lust, she reasoned, he would lust for her, now. Must. She would make him. It was all she had a hope of ever making him do. It was her time now, and she gave herself to him with a sense of purpose she'd not known herself capable of.

"Are you mine, Bellatrix Black? Mine of your own free will, to use for mine own purposes, foul or fell?" his voice rang out in the clearing. It echoed louder in the forefront of her mind, Well? Are you?

You know I am, Master, she responded in like fashion. You have no need to ever ask.

Respond aloud, fool! The ritual requires it.

"Yes, I am yours. Do what you will with me."

"And you are pure, and have known the touch of no man?"

"Yes."

The response was technically inaccurate, but the words of the spell were old and poorly translated from the Coptic. An intact maidenhead was really the only requirement; the ancients equated that with "purity", and weren't so picky as to whether fingers, tongues, or other foreign objects had lingered overlong in her nether regions. Thankfully. Purity, my arse. (Which, taking the pun as read, was thoroughly inaccurate as well. She didn't giggle.)

"I draw blood then, and with it power. Ready yourself."

Master, please take me. Take and use your whore.

I have every intention of doing so, if you will shut the bloody hell up and spread your legs.

Stinging from the rebuke but aroused further by his urgency, Bellatrix parted her thighs and waited, trembling, for the moment she'd fantasized about countless nights over the last six years...

GIRL: Will he offer me his mouth?

BOY: Yes.

Bellatrix Black knew how to shop.

All the Black women did; it was a skill learned at mummy's knee, and none had taken the lessons better. Each bag's contents were carefully selected to simultaneously highlight her endowments and impress the observer with the old money that enabled their purchase. As such, she had today acquired a decent collection of new robes, formal and informal, many of which mummy herself would not approve.

Some of the robes' hemlines were much too short, for instance; she would have to wear tights beneath them since no opera-length stockings in the world would enable her to avoid displaying welt. She smiled as she imagined her mother's inevitable howls in reaction to her selections and clutched her packages more lovingly about her as she made her way out of the ever-fashionable Bizarre and into the streets of Wizarding London. "Those robes make you look like a common tart," the old cow would bleat. "I'll not have my daughter wearing anything so whorish."

There wasn't much the elder Black could do about it, of course, other than kick her out of the house. Which would be too much of a scandal for Druella Black: driving out a daughter on the barest cusp of the age of majority would set tongues wagging, and you couldn't have that. And for simply wearing what was fashionable amongst almost all of today's Wizarding youth? Bellatrix knew how far she could push, and this was nowhere near those limits.

After picking up a darling new set of elbow-length gloves for Auntie Walburga's party next week, Bellatrix Apparated back home.

She nodded to Plutoch as he opened the foyer door for her, bowing and scraping. She accepted his obeisance, but she found herself loathing him as she loathed all house-elves. Filthy creatures.

As she neared her father's study en route to her chambers, she heard unfamiliar voices within and decided to investigate. The door was open.

"Daddy?" she inquired, sighting him behind the massive mahogany desk. Cygnus Black was a solid and handsome man of forty years, and he scowled at her as she burst in.

"Yes, what is it you want, Bella?" came the obsequious voice. "Can you not see your father is busy with his guests?"

Must be important ones, she thought. He's referring to himself in the third person again. She knew he was about to dismiss her rudely, so she took the time to look these personages over.

There were two: one was dark and brutish and smiled like a deviant, and seemed prone to squinting. The other was pale and though his features were pleasant enough his skin looked vaguely shiny and waxen. His eyes seemed aglitter with something she could not yet fathom...

Cygnus gestured for her to leave, and she took her time doing so, pointedly ignoring the guests. One of the men interrupted the strut of her exit by addressing her father.

"Oh, Cygnus, you didn't introduce us to your remarkable daughter."

"She's of no consequence, that's why."

"I disagree. She looks very much of consequence to me."

Bellatrix had turned to see her father's reaction, and was surprised to see a look of discomfort on her father's face. She might even label it "fear". Interesting.

"Very well. Gentlemen, this is my daughter Bellatrix Black. Bellatrix, you will know these men as Mr. Yaxley and Mr ... Lord Voldemort."

"'Mr. Lord'?" Bellatrix replied saucily. "Are you a member of the nobility or the gentry, then, sir?" She curtsied extravagantly.

Her father scowled at this and his body language suggested she must stop immediately, but a mischievous bug had caught her fancy and she continued to stare at the self-styled lord.

"He is an old school associate and he is not to be made a target of one of your--"

"It's all right, Cygnus," interrupted the individual who was the topic of this conversation. "Clearly young-- Bellatrix, is it?-- Bellatrix has not yet learned respect for her elders. I'm a bit surprised at this, but then she's probably still in school and doesn't yet know any better."

"I graduated last summer," Bellatrix shot back, insulted despite herself. "Milord."

"Indeed? Interesting. Interesting. Better marry her off, soon, Cygnus, to someone of good, pure blood. Young ladies were very discreet when we left Hogwarts, but the Class of '69 is liable to get into all sorts of trouble. There are all kinds of ... temptations..." He leered at her.

"Yes ... yes, well, we haven't yet found a suitable match for Bellatrix. I assure you that time will come, won't it, dear?"

"Daddy hasn't yet found someone rich enough to meet my standards."

The guest laughed and clapped his hands in appreciation. "Oh, Cygnus, what a treasure. Do you think she'd care to join the 'nobility'? I am still a bachelor, after all."

Her father stammered at this, but Bellatrix curled her lip at him in what was not quite a sneer. "Unfortunately, milord, I am a thoroughly modern girl and consider the nobility a Muggle institution through and through. I just couldn't bear to be involved with anyone so uncouth as to have adopted one of their titles, no matter how paltry. I'm young and very forgetful of my manners, sir ... was it 'Duke Voldemort'? 'Count Voldemort'? 'Baron von Voldemort'?"

Face reddened and unwilling to have this verbal sparring go any further, Cygnus waved her out and slammed the door behind. Bellatrix giggled to herself at his consternation and at her own final remarks and continued the walk to the spiral staircase leading to her chambers. The fact that Lord Voldemort's laughter continued unabated, penetrating the door and slipping up the stairs did not go entirely unnoticed by her.

GIRL: Will he offer me his teeth?

BOY: Yes.

The Brassy Dragon was the classiest tavern in Diagon Alley. While it wasn't entirely exclusive, entry to the back room was restricted to invitees only. As a Black, Bellatrix had a standing invitation to enter, and on a night like Walpurgisnacht, there was simply nowhere better to be.

Bellatrix was dressed very conservatively in tight robes which brushed her stockings only about an inch above her knees, in a shade of violet barely divorced from black. She had just ordered her second glass of a somewhat acceptable vintage and the musicians were preparing for their next set. She couldn't recall their name but it was something foreign. Brazilian, perhaps. They'd started with something bossa nova and moved it in an odd direction, but now they seemed focused on more traditional Latin music. It wasn't appalling, though the wait staff was slow.

"Ah, Miss Black." The voice came from behind her and slid through the other noise in the room directly to her ears. "How nice to see you here. And alone?" She turned to face him.

"Why, hello. Mr. Lord Baron Officer Voldemort, isn't it?" She rose and extended her hand to him, trying (and failing) not to smile at her own wit.

His mouth twisted into something too amused to be considered grim, and he lowered it to the hand she offered. "Just 'Lord', if you please. I wouldn't want you to strain your tongue, sharp as it is. May I join you?"

Why in the world the air of his breath on her wrist went straight to her nipples she could not fathom, but there it was, and she felt herself blushing and lowering her eyes in response. Still, she recovered quickly and sat back down. "If you must, milord. A company of acquaintances will be arriving shortly and then I'll need all the space for their egos. For now, you can store yours here."

"You have friends?" he grinned as he sat in one of the chairs indicated. "I wouldn't have guessed it."

"Of course. They're not as handsome as Mr. Yaxley, of course. I am sure you travel in much more rarified circles than I."

"Different, perhaps, but not necessarily more rarified." He looked thoughtful for an instant. "Miss Black, have you considered the Muggle problem?"

"I don't ever consider the Muggles, or their problems."

This made him almost cheerful. "Just so. What would you say if I told you there was a community of very highborn wizards who have taken it upon themselves to change the way the entire Wizarding community looks at Muggles. No more 'tolerance', no more 'live and let live', and no more of this damned interbreeding that demeans every man, woman, and child with magic in their soul."

"Hmmm..."

"We're dedicated to the idea of revolution, you see. We know that wizards are superior to Muggles in every way, and we plan to institute changes-- major changes-- societally, governmentally, legally. In fact, we're committed to the idea that the more powerful and pureblooded the wizard, the more power he-- or she-- should wield in society. There are many precedents, you know. Ancient Egypt. Old ... Well, at any rate, I've already spoken to your father about joining my-- our cause. What do you think?"

"It sounds like a lot of annoying politics to me, Lord Voldemort. And I find the whole subject to be a dreadful bore."

"So, you'll not be joining us in the Pureblood Collective, I take it?"

"Oh, it has a name, too! How darling! No, what use could I possibly have for such a thing? Boys and their dreary games." She looked again at him and reconsidered. No boy, he. "Men, anyway. No, milord, I have more important things to do with my time."

"Shopping?"

"And sampling fine wines," she replied, grinning, gesturing with her glass. "Unlike this one. Waiter!"

The servant in question couldn't hear her, since the band had moved into a loud rendition of some form of tango. To her surprise, her guest stood, bowed sardonically, and extended his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Black?"

Intrigued despite herself, and perhaps a victim of the wine, she arched an eyebrow at him and added a smirk. "For now," she said, rising to her feet, "for now."

And whether it was through some natural talent or a spell she had never learned the name of, the Dark Lord Voldemort could dance.

He strode forward in time with the music... slow, slow, quick-quick, slow ... and she retreated in the same rhythm. He gripped her right hand and his own was upon her back, braced on her rib cage, and his upper body was tight and rigid against hers. It was hard to remember he was of her father's generation-- his movements were so sure, smooth, and extravagant. Her leg wrapped itself around his and she allowed him to drag her backward with him across the floor.

Bellatrix knew now that it had to be a spell, for though she had been trained since an early age on social dancing of various sorts, that training had not included the Argentine tango, and she was executing it near-flawlessly. The dance was deeply sexual, with bodies tense and close and a great deal of intertwined limbs, and she found it exhilarating, much to her own surprise. She looked deep into his eyes as, with a swift move, he placed his hand on the side of her face. It was like a caress but was gone as swiftly as it came, and he spun her around once and then into a dramatic dip. She had barely perspired but some fire within her seemed on the verge of kindling.

The dance was over, then, but he swept her into the street and into the space between two buildings. He held her to him and she felt him stiffen against her leg. It was then that he started to take liberties. His hand radiated neither heat nor chill as it crossed the hemline of her robes, but when he moved it beyond the edge of her girdle and placed it upon her knickers she stopped him.

"No, Lord Voldemort. I must go, now." She was shaking as she said it, with fear or something else.

"Go? But I'd just gotten to the good part. Your mind."

"My mind is not between my thighs."

"Ah, it's there I disagree with you. Your mind has been down there ever since I arrived on the scene, has it not?"

"Of course not. You're ... not my type." She backed away and looked for an escape, but he continued to block the only exit. She laughed nervously. "You're old enough to be my father."

"Older! But I am entirely your type, I think you'll find. Because your type is a man who will treat you like the slut you are. You, little Bellatrix, are nothing but a common tart dressed up in a proper lady's robes."

"How dare--?"

"I dare much, Bellatrix Black. I dare everything!" He raised his wand and met her rage with his own. "Imperio!"

The slap she had been about to deliver to his face fell away, as did the arm she tried to raise in its accomplishment. She felt warm, tingly ... and quite compliant.

"Ah ... shutting that beautiful mouth of yours is easier than I thought it would be. Very nice. And now, allow it to go slack a bit ... your lips are quite full ... On your knees before your master, bitch."

Her legs buckled beneath her as she rushed to obey. It felt so good to obey. Even the bruises on her shins and the snap of the suspender clip as it came loose and stung her upper thigh ... felt good. Her nipples were taut and ached against her garments. She looked up at Voldemort, her jaw slack and her eyes vacant. Master.

"You haughty cunt, you aren't fit to wear those expensive robes. Remove them."

She unbuttoned the robes and got a charge of excitement, though whether it was due to losing her clothes in this semi-public place or to being called a "cunt" she couldn't be sure. The more she pondered it the more she found it likely it was both.

"Well, well, well. Daddy's little girl is all grown up. Physically, at any rate. Your form is certainly aesthetically pleasing." He gazed at her speculatively and she felt each glance as a caress. "Not that I care. I just want your obedience."

His eyes bored into hers and she felt any resistance she'd ever had to his advances evaporate into thin mist. "Do I have that, Bellatrix Black?"

"Yes, Lord Voldemort." Saying his name helped.

He smiled and the smile was wicked. "Are you my whore, Bellatrix Black?"

"Yes, Lord Voldemort." The silk of her knickers felt humid inside.

"Then use your mouth, hussy." He put his wand back in is belt. "I am certain you know how."

He was right, of course. She was hardly an innocent, and once after Anders Parkinson had licked her to several strong orgasms she had consented to take him down her throat. Feeling his hardness filling her mouth had given her a thrill, then, and she'd been surprised by her arousal from such an act, but despite (or perhaps precisely because of) the intensity of that feeling she'd not repeated the experience. And certainly had never let it go any farther than that, except in the fantasies she ran through her mind at two o'clock in the morning while molesting herself with her hands.

The feeling was doubled, trebled right now as she parted the front of his robes, found the pulsing, solid member he provided, and thrust it into her mouth. She cradled his testicles, gently stroking them with one hand while she used the other to slather her saliva all over his length.

He called her "whore", he called her "slut" and "tart", and repeatedly called her "cunt". He demeaned her verbally with terms she'd heard from men before but which none had ever dared cast in her direction. Each time the revolting words reached her ears the heat between her thighs increased, and it was only her urge to utterly satisfy him with her hands as well as her mouth which kept her from plunging her hands into her needy slit to obtain release.

She cast her gaze in his direction. She couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself. At least he was smiling. That was a good sign, right? He was her master. She couldn't disobey. She wanted ... no, needed him to use her. With a bit of trepidation, hoping she was not taking too many liberties, she bore him fully into her throat and gently moved his hands into her hair, making it clear he should grab fistfuls of it. That made him laugh, and he obliged her by holding her head steady in his grip and pounding into her mouth repeatedly until he finally tensed and flooded her mouth with sticky fluid. She savored the flavor and finally permitted her fingers to seek out their leaky goal.