HP Fic Repost: Great Moments in Death Eater History, Vol. I, 1970-81, various short pieces, NC17

It was customary in the days when Voldemort ran the country to end meetings of the wizarding parliament with drinks and dinner and an orgy, in which participation was mandatory. Only Lucius was generally exempt (partially, he hoped, because Voldemort was a little afraid of him and dared not command him; partially, he feared, because Voldemort had a bit of a crush on Narcissa (he said she was a proper lady, and reminded him of his mum) and didn't want to upset her. This did not mean, of course, that either Lucius or Narcissa objected to a bit of experimentation. Narcissa rather fancied the idea of having two men at once, and although Lucius didn't find the idea particularly appealing he had been able to convince her to compromise.

One night after a raid, when they were all celebrating and very drunk indeed, Lucius managed to coax Narcissa's sister Bellatrix back for a nightcap. He had had an eye on Trix for quite some time (since before he'd married Narcissa, even; it had been quite a choice, the one so dark and red-lipped and rapacious, the other surpassing fair with a little girl voice and smile and a bona fide miracle in bed) and he rather fancied she'd been watching him too. He had promised her she could be the baby's godmother and been surprised at how pleased she was.

Lucius had put together the night's agenda very carefully, and at first it seemed to go perfectly. He and Bellatrix emerged, stumbling a little, from the hearth, arm in arm. Narcissa was waiting before the roaring fire, clad in a negligee of black cobwebs and a black silk dressing gown that hid most of her vast bulk.

Lucius did not expect that she'd take a very active part in the proceedings; she had not been particularly amenable to his advances for several months and he thought that the current stage of her pregnancy would make such things both awkward and uncomfortable. He had hoped she'd be content to watch, even brought her a Muggle toy he thought she might enjoy using on herself.
And so he was surprised when Narcissa welcomed Trix with a fervent and open-armed hug, her swollen body pressed tightly against her sister's slender one. Surprised, but not displeased; there was something unaccountably erotic about the sight of the two women clutching each other so passionately. One of Narcissa's slender hands, bare but for the Malfoy diamond, tangled in Bellatrix's dark hair, while the other stroked Bellatrix's back.

And Narcissa's mouth, on Bellatrix's, pressed a kiss that was anything but sisterly. Lucius was so overcome that he was forced to sit down and watch properly. He could see that Narcissa's tongue was in Trix's mouth, and that Bellatrix, startled at first, had begun to melt. Her hands, which had clasped Narcissa's waist loosely, moved upward to Narcissa's shoulders; Narcissa's hand moved lower to caress the swell of Bellatrix's buttocks. Lucius loosened the laces of his trousers and leaned back, wondering if it would be bad form to touch his cock this early in the game.

When they made love Narcissa generally let him take the lead and so Lucius was startled to see her push Bellatrix down onto the sofa and thrust a knee between the other woman's thighs. He had expected Narcissa to take an observer's role, and that it would be his larger hands that cupped Trix's breasts. Now he felt a stirring of disquiet. Had Narcissa embraced this idea just a little too willingly? What if they forgot him entirely in their passion for one another?

He stood and edged closer, but just as he had almost reached his target, Narcissa tilted her head back and hit him quite hard in his burgeoning erection. Lucius bit his tongue quite hard and stumbled backward. Narcissa apologized with every appearance of sincerity and regret but Bellatrix, unforgivably, laughed. After that Lucius was inclined to send her home and go to bed with the shreds of his dignity intact. He was miserably aware that Voldemort would find the story amusing, and that Bellatrix would make sure he heard it.

Instead he watched while Narcissa and Bellatrix, hand in hand, (and free hands somewhere naughtier) drifted toward the bedroom. Discretion being the better part of valor as well as the motto of the Malfoys, he ought to retreat. He could not quite bring himself to do so, but he followed at a distance, limping a little. This was his fantasy, not Narcissa's, and he was determined to see it played out.

It was a sadder but wiser Lucius who lurked on the wrong side of the door to his own bedroom, one hand gently massaging his wizardly parts. He had been not only unmanned but also disillusioned. And yet he had hopes. He had cast an Enlargement Charm on the keyhole, and while he would have preferred action to observation, he had to admit the view was priceless. How often, after all, did a man have an opportunity to watch his pregnant wife make love to her sister? He only hoped that the cameras were picking everything up.

Backlit by the roaring fire, and framed by the curtains of the enormous bed, the two women were a magnificent sight. Narcissa, naked to the waist, knelt on a field of dark green satin. Bellatrix, propped on one elbow beneath her, was licking Narcissa's distended breasts, her teeth very white and sharp beside the red of her tongue and the red of Narcissa's nipples.

Narcissa deftly unbuttoned Bellatrix's dress, revealing an expanse of silken skin. Bellatrix, pulled free and stood, so that the dress pooled around her ankles. And then she lay back against the pillows, her black hair loose on the pillows, her arms above her head. The Dark Mark coiled about her wrist like blasphemy. Narcissa loomed over no less beautiful despite her bulk. Lucius felt his throbbing penis stir reluctantly to life as he noticed that Narcissa had transfigured the Muggle apparatus he had purchased into a most unMuggle construction.

It had been a simple handheld device, easy enough to operate with one hand, and a shocking pink in color. Narcissa had transformed it into a more life like creation, and belted it about her hips. Lucius noticed that it had a small clip connecting it to her clitoris and thought proudly that Narcissa might not be a very good Death Eater but no one could say she lacked talent. Less proudly, he noted that the contraption had been enlarged and was slightly larger than his own magic wand.

With a lack of foreplay she would have deplored in Lucius, Narcissa plunged the apparatus into Bellatrix. The other woman threw back her head and let out a moan that must have wakened the house elves. Lucius's penis hardened in his hand and he stroked it absently and then with greater attention. He found the sight maddeningly erotic, though he could not but wish he were participating. Strangely, Narcissa seemed to have great expertise with the penis; Bellatrix writhed beneath her and clawed his silk pillow shams. Narcissa had claimed to be a virgin when he had married her, but there were charms to arrange that. And there had always been rumors in the Pureblood community of the unnatural solidarity of the Black family. Lucius hoped she had practiced it on her cousin Sirius.

In the Malfoy master bedroom, matters had reached a climax. Narcissa thrust into Bellatrix with such frenzy that Lucius (while he admired her technique) hoped she wouldn't injure the baby. He could not quite see explaining the circumstances, particularly his own part in them, to Voldemort. But before he could make up his mind to intervene, Bellatrix gave one final moan and Narcissa's face flushed a charming pink and she flopped onto her side. Both women were damp with sweat, their hair tangled. In the firelight, they looked more alike than ever. Lucius fastidiously summoned a handkerchief and wiped the semen off his hands.

Summary: Sisters are forever. Bellatrix/ Narcissa


The parties Bellatrix Black Lestrange threw at her tiny flat in Hexham Street were legendary, even during the early days of the war, when no extravagance was too much because they were going to win or die. She had a transfigured marble bath filled with pink champagne, dancing girls in every shape and shade, bewitched and handsome Muggle boys with guitars and drums. The Death Eaters came to her parties in force (invitations were much prized among non- Death Eaters, particularly spies for the Order, who regarded them as a plush, if dangerous, assignment). Indeed, even Tom Marvolo Riddle, in his incarnation as Lord Voldemort, made an occasional appearance.

In all of England, there was only one man who did not enjoy Bellatrix's parties, one man who actively sought assignment elsewhere on those nights. Lucius Malfoy disliked anything associated with Bellatrix, and despised the woman herself. Despite their famous name and undisputed fortune, he had found the Black family unpleasant and unwelcoming, and Bellatrix unquestionably the worst of the lot. She would not have found any man her sister's equal, and certainly no Malfoy.

Lucius had often wondered if Bellatrix was not a trifle over fond of her own sex, if those heavy-lidded eyes did not warm at the sight of white breasts and pink lips. He found the thought both repellant and exciting. That was the trouble with Bellatrix; no matter how much you disliked her you still found her eminently fuckable. That was why Lucius stayed well clear of her, and of the dissipation that seemed to hang about her like a cloud.

Only, his wife loved her sister. What could he say to Narcissa that would make her understand what a dissolute thing Bellatrix was? What words were fierce enough to encompass such a sin? For surely there could be nothing worse than the things that Bellatrix did in secret, the things that the Dark Lord did not see, that Rudolphus gave tacit consent to. Narcissa would not believe until she saw those things for herself.

Lucius wanted her pure. Wanted her pregnant with his child, waiting warm in his bed when he came in late and cold and hungry from a long day of shedding other men's blood. Wanted her unmarked, untouched by other men's hands, by the taint that ran in the blood of the Blacks-the taint of everything Bellatrix stood for. He could only keep her pure by despoiling her, by letting her see what her sister was. And so, reluctantly, he allowed her to go to the parties her sister gave. Waited, and hoped she would see the truth.

Lucius would have been most unhappy, had he seen what it was Narcissa did at the parties he was so loathe to attend. Narcissa never dressed before he left; he would have objected most strongly to the silver sequined dress, shorter than her silver hair, that Bellatrix so adored on her. He would not have liked the silver basilisk skin boots that came up to her knees, or the kohl she used around her eyes. He might have wanted to fuck the mouth she painted Gryffindor crimson, but he would not have approved.

And he would not have approved of the sparkling, piquant creature she became, in the presence of her sister and the other Death Eaters. He would not have liked the admiring glances men gave her, or the way she sometimes smiled, slow and sure, in response. He would have blamed Bellatrix for the habit she had of leaning close, for the breathy little laugh that seemed designed to arouse a man.

The truth was that Bellatrix for all her dissipation was constant as the North Star; she never strayed far from the pledges made to her lord and her husband. And she did not have Narcissa's gift for telling men what they wanted to hear. She would not have stayed so long by Lucius Malfoy's side, playing the perfect little wife. Bellatrix had never been much good at hiding her nature.

Narcissa was as ambitious as Bellatrix, and as ruthless. Only, she was better at hiding it. And so she wore long dark robes in her husband's company, and coiled her hair at the base of her neck. She did not drink anything but wine; she certainly did not drink the green cocktails called Killing Curses that Bellatrix served at her parties, and she did not smoke the imported brown cigarettes that stained her sister's fingers yellow. At least, she did not do these things when her husband was present. Lucius Malfoy was as handsome as he was bigoted, as pureblooded as a Gaunt and far richer. He was worth a little inconvenience.

She always saw him off on his endless and petty little raids before she began to dress. Lucius did not know the art that made her eyes bigger and brighter, her mouth fuller, her hair into a silver banner that streamed behind her. He made love to her at night, in the dark, behind locked doors, and so he did not see that her body was made for a man's hands, even a woman's hands; he did not see that she was meant to be touched, sullied, marked by rough impatient fingers and magical brands. She lay quiet beneath him, the way a lady should; she did not laugh or talk or kiss him or bite his ear as Bellatrix did to Rudolphus.

Lucius did not go to Hexham Street and so he did not see the things Narcissa did with his colleagues and his master and sometimes his enemies. He did not know that though she had not been on a horse since she was a small girl, she kept her riding crop tucked under her arm while she talked. He did not know that she had lain beneath the Dark Lord on the werewolf rug before the fire in his study, when he himself had been assigned to guard duty in the rain. He did not know that she had had her cousin Regulus and Brian Goyle together, one night when they had all rather over-indulged. Or that she had had Crabbe and Mrs. Crabbe separately, and ruined their marriage in the process.

He did not know that she and Bellatrix both had grown tired of the way he spoke to them as if they were somehow members of an inferior species, incapable of reason. He did not know that she planned to teach him respect, and he would not have believed it if he had been told. He was as innocent as his wife was debauched, and ripe for mastery.

A wiser man, one less convinced of his wife's goodness, would not have drunk from the cup Narcissa offered. Lucius drank it to the dregs. And woke, to find himself bound and gagged, his back against the cool stone walls of his own dungeon. On the floor before him lay Bellatrix, and beneath her, quite still-Narcissa. Despite the cold both of them were entirely unclothed. Lucius thought for a heart stopping moment they were dead. But the still air of the dungeon was heavy with the scent of sex, and between Narcissa's thighs, Bellatrix's fingers still moved absently.

He should have been horrified; it very much went against his notions of feminity, of morality. But Lucius found the tableau strangely arousing. The two women were beautiful, beautifully matched: their carelessness was itself a kind of innocence. Ordinary rules did not apply in this Eden. Even as he watched, Narcissa untangled herself from Bellatrix and sat up, slowly and languidly shaking her pale hair away from her face.

Lucius had never before seen her entirely naked. Seeing her in such a position-and with her own sister-should have appalled him. Yet he found he could not look away. Narcissa met his eyes over Bellatrix's shoulder and then leaned forward to press a kiss to the hollow of her sister's throat. It was exactly the sort of raw sexuality he had meant to protect her from, and he was only just realizing how wrong he had been. Wrong about Narcissa, and wrong, too, about passion.

Bellatrix moaned as her sister's tongue traced arcane patterns across the swells of her heavy breasts, down the length of her white belly to the nest of dark curls. Lucius shuddered watching them, not because he was horrified but because he was so very aroused and had no way to satisfy himself. He had never imagined he could feel so about his wife or about sex. He had never dreamed he could feel so about Bellatrix.

Summary: Never take the Black sisters for granted. Bellatrix/ Narcissa


Peter has a new haircut, which just might be the worst haircut known to man. He sits in the last pew and kicks the back of the row before him, sulky and hot and bored. He is bored and he hates St. Godric's as much as he does his father. His father, the vicar, is far too busy to notice Peter hating him; he's fussing about the roof, whinging to the tall red-headed man from the Ministry, pointing out the cracks in the plaster, the damp spots on the marble floor, the mildew on the walls. He loves the church more than his son or even his God.

Peter's been told to wait because his father wants to talk to him, too. He's probably gotten Peter's end-of-term report, full of inadequates and does not work up to potentials, and bad conduct marks, which Peter will blame on James. He doesn't dislike school exactly but he doesn't really see the point, either. He isn't going to be a professor or go to seminary like his father.

In Peter's pocket is a letter from Sirius, perhaps the least matey of all of his friends. He and Sirius have almost nothing in common and during school they hardly talk at all. But unlike James and Remus they both hate their fathers, and they write each other a lot in the summers. And this letter is a long one, hard to read the way everything Sirius writes is, full of crossouts and black marks.

There's one word Peter can't quite make out, the word that according to Sirius you aren't supposed to say. He sounds it out to himself, but silently, and he never looks away from the pews in front of him. Voldemort. The word you aren't supposed to say is Voldemort. If Sirius says it it must be true, because there is nothing the Black family doesn't know about Dark Magic.

Very, very quietly, so that his father won't hear, Peter takes out the letter and his wand. He touches the tip of the wand to Sirius's scrawled words and mutters, "Incendio." Restrictions on underage magic don't apply on holy ground. The letter turns to ash in his palm. Peter's good at this charm, although he isn't at most of them. "Voldemort," he whispers to himself, fanning away the tiny plume of smoke. It has a certain ring to it, brave and barbaric at once.

James is going to be married to Lily, and Remus has passed the most NEWTs of anyone, and Sirius got accepted into Auror training. Peter is being left with nothing. He's seventeen, and he sits in the last pew and sulks while he waits for his father to finish complaining about the lead content in the stained glass windows and let the red-haired man from the Ministry leave. He's not afraid of what his father will say, because he's heard it every year since he was eleven.

The thing that worries him now is the card in his pocket. It's printed on stiff, heavy parchment, the kind Muggles use because they don't send things by owl. The words don't move at all, which is why the Muggles call it stationary. It's James and Lily's wedding invitation, with a note from Lily on the inside.

She's written to him-"Dear Peter, Please say you'll come. I'm sorrier than I can tell you that things have worked out this way. I want for all of us to be friends, and I know Jamie wants that too. Anyway, it will be worth it to see Sirius in a morning coat and giving a speech-he's best man, you know. All my love, Lily."

James was Peter's friend first, but now nobody remembers that. James will have Lily, and Sirius will have his work, and Remus will have all the NEWTs anyone could ever want. And Lily will have James, all to herself. He doesn't burn the invitation, the way he used to burn Sirius's letters; he needs to be able to touch it, to remember it's real.

Peter sits through his father's lecture, thinking of suicide and the heat and nothing in particular. He already knows what his punishment will be; his father is fond of leaving him alone in the church for the night, to consider his sins. It is not something that he is afraid of, not anymore.

The only thing he is afraid of would come, equally, in dark or light; this name that has no boundaries and no masters. Peter has been close to it since he was thirteen, but now he hates his life more than he fears what will come. When his father is gone he lights a dozen of the thick white candles. "Voldemort," he says, and hears the word ringing in the emptiness of the church. It sounds the way a dream should.

He says it a second time, savoring the sound of it, and a third, to make it come true. All the most powerful spells rely on repetition, and why should this one be any different? He has no more gift for Summoning Spells than he ever did, but this one works even better than he'd hoped.

The floor is marble, black veined with gray and with white, smooth and cold beneath his cheek, against the palms of his hands. If ever there were a time to pray, it is now, and still the words do not come to him. The man at the altar raises his hand to his brow in ironic salute-or perhaps only recognition-to the bleeding Christ and swings round in a flurry of black robes.

The man holding Peter down lets go and moves to stand at the side of his master. "He is not-much-surely, dark prince?"

"Not much at all, my Lucius," Voldemort agrees. "And yet neither were you, once. Leave us, if you will; what I have to say to him had best be said in private, and what better place than this, for a conversion?"

But when Lucius has gone, Voldemort makes it clear that it is not Peter's loyalty that is his first priority. He wants something else from Peter, something more easily won. Peter doesn't understand at first. He's not sure what he expected, but it isn't Voldemort's hands, pressing him cold and small against the floor. It isn't Voldemort bending close to kiss him, the first time he's ever been kissed, supremely gentle and tasting faintly of fire.

It isn't Voldemort saying to him, "I will make you a disciple to be proud of, little one," with a satisfied smile that makes Peter think of James after a particularly good match. He never had been able to say no to James, not until the very end. It was part of why he hated him-them. He fingers the stiff, sharp edges of the invitation in his pocket, and watches Voldemort's long delicate fingers unlace the neck of his shirt, slide free the buttons of his trousers. It seems a great honor that he should trouble to do so by hand when a simple spell would have done as well.

And he knows that is an honor to have Voldemort's hand be the first besides his own to trace its way under the waistband of Peter's pants and pull gently at the stiffening penis in its dense nest. The trouble is, Peter is not sure that this what he wants. It certainly isn't what he meant to want. "Stop," he said, and he heard his voice rise to a squeak. But he didn't want to do this, not on the smooth cold marble, not in the dark, not with Voldemort.

"I don't think so," Voldemort says, as if he's considered it. "No, my Peter, my pet, my traitor, I don't think I will." And his fingers tightened on Peter like a cat's claws, so that Peter gasped and bucked against him. "Don't tell me you don't like that, little one," as his sharpened nails dug into the tender flesh. "All of my Death Eaters find it most pleasant." He did something then, traced something that felt very like the Dark Mark, on a spot just behind Peter's swelling testicles. "Do you think you could stop me? I should like it if you fought. Even my Lucius is not so obliging as to fight me."

Peter did fight him then. He kicked out, hard, again and again, and somehow he always missed. He twisted and felt Voldemort swelling against his thigh. He clawed at Voldemort's eyes, caught him a glancing blow to the chin, and heard Voldemort laugh. And then Voldemort said, "Oh, I do like you, my Peter. You shall be first among my Death Eaters," and something in Peter broke and he stopped fighting and went limp. He was only seventeen, and this was the Dark Lord. Why should he fight him? Who would expect him to?

James and Remus had buggered Snape, not just once, but a half a dozen times. Whenever they'd caught him on his own after prefect meetings. They'd told Peter about it, laughed about how he'd screamed. Peter was determined not to scream. He'd wondered whether Snape had come to like it, had made himself available. Now, as Voldemort forced his way into Peter, into the small dry tight place that had never been touched, Peter knew Snape hadn't. No one could have liked this. Snape had just given up.

But Peter lay under Voldemort and his cock, untouched, leaked. It liked it, even the parts that hurt. It knew what it would mean to be first among the Death Eaters, and to make James and Lily and Sirius and Remus crawl. And he knew that the thing, the awful burning thing that Voldemort had put into him, was going to make him come as he had never come in his life. And he knew that somewhere, in the shadows behind the altar, Lucius Malfoy watched him with angry, predatory eyes. And he was only sorry his father had gone, that he wasn't there to see Peter meet his creator in the flesh.

Summary: Deus lo volt. Peter/ Lord Voldemort


She knows what they say about her: that she's a girl doing a man's job, that she isn't strong enough, fast enough, ruthless enough. Bellatrix knows different. She's as strong as she has to be, as fast as she needs to be, far, far more ruthless than they ever dreamed she could be. There is nothing she will not do to earn her lord's regard, no price she will not pay. She can fight, she can fuck, she can torture and she can kill. Let them say that she is a woman, and therefore weak. Let them look admiringly at her body, as if there is nothing more to her than skin so milk-pale the veins show beneath it, breasts large enough to fill a man's hands. She is Bellatrix Black: there is more to her than her sex, or her bloodline. She is not meant to be a broodmare.

She and Lucius Malfoy are both nineteen, and there is power for the taking. Only, they will have to prove themselves to Voldemort. Lucius says that it is no life for a woman, and his lazy grey eyes gleam in his tan face. His father was Abraxes Malfoy, who shed his wife's blood with his own hands, and whose name wronged men still conjure by. He is promised to her sister, but he is not her brother yet. And he has spent his life proving himself to a far harsher judge.

Bellatrix has nothing to match him with, nothing but her fury. Still, she stands beside him, back ramrod straight, as she waits for her orders. She has never seen Voldemort's Inner Circle unmasked, but she knows there are no women in it. She will be the first, and she will be first among his Death Eaters. She wants it more than Lucius ever could.

The task Voldemort gives them is simple. They are each given a prisoner to break, there before all of the Death Eaters. Lucius chooses first. Bellatrix watches him do it. He looks them over like a starving man at a buffet, but his eyes are cool and calculating and not at all hungry. She fucked him once, before her mother chose him for Narcissa: it was in the dark, in the Slytherin common room. He put three fingers in her first, and afterward he used his mouth to make her come, but he hurt her during and she knew that he did it deliberately. She likes that, likes that she knows where she stands with him.

There are a handful of children, a half a dozen men of all ages, two women. Lucius chooses one of them. Bellatrix takes the other. They stand in the middle of the circle of Death Eaters, the only ones unmasked. This is trial by fire, and she can feel the flames licking at her feet.

When Lucius's prisoner sees who has chosen her, she cries out "Malfoy!" in a high, strangled voice, and the sharp, acrid smell of piss floods the room. She is half-broken already, and he has not spoken a word or laid a finger on her. Bellatrix's choice sprawls before her, trembling, her eyes closed but her chin up.

"Crucio," Bellatrix hears Lucius say as she moves past him.

She kneels beside her prisoner. "Tell me your name," she says. The woman shakes her head. Bellatrix leans forward and kisses her on the mouth, as gently and chastely as she might kiss a brother, if she had one. "Tell me your name," she says again, soft against the woman's mouth. The woman turns her head away, and Bellatrix kisses her slender white throat, the furled shell of her ear, the place where her neck joins her shoulder. "Tell me," she whispers.

The woman Lucius chose is screaming raggedly, not words but sounds. Bellatrix whispers an uncloaking charm and her prisoner's clothing falls away. There are murmurs from the Death Eaters, but silence from Voldemort. He, at least, will give her the opportunity to prove herself. Bellatrix traces the shape of the woman's small upright breasts, squeezes them gently. "Kathy," her prisoner moans. "My name is Kathy--Katherine Bones--please--."

"Quiet," Bellatrix tells her. "That's enough for now." She kisses Kathy again, and this time she kisses her like a lover. The other woman is stiff, clearly terrified, but confused, too. She's strong, but her strength will be her undoing. This is not battle, but seduction, and it cannot be defeated by fighting.

Lucius casts the Cruciatus Curse over and over, and even without looking over, Bellatrix knows he's going too far, too quickly. She licks her way down Kathy's neck, takes an erect, pert nipple in her mouth. "Tell me where the Order of the Phoenix meets," she breathes as she slides a hand between Kathy's thighs.

"Can't," Kathy whimpers, and Bellatrix knows she has her. Knows it is only a matter of time, now. "Tell me what time they meet, then," she suggests, and her thumb finds Kathy's clitoris. Kathy is no virgin: she bucks againsts Bellatrix's fingers like a woman looking for God. "Surely that doesn't matter so much."

Lucius's prisoner gags, and it takes everything Bellatrix can muster to keep Kathy from noticing. She eases a finger into Kathy, bites down hard on the closest breast. "Ten," Kathy says. "They meet at ten, on the Thursday after the full moon--Oh Christ--."

"You're doing beautifully," Bellatrix tells her truthfully. She pushes a second finger into Kathy's warm wet heat, and the woman's thighs close around her arm like a nutcracker. She's crying now, and Bellatrix licks the tears away as gently as she can. "Tell me where they meet, Kathy," she whispers. "Please."

"Can't," Kathy says again. She's panting now, not with fear but with lust. "'S protected--Fidelius. Only Dumbledore knows." Bellatrix knows she's telling the truth, and she's angry. Surely Voldemort must have known. She looks over at the Dark Lord, and he is, unmistakeably, smiling at her. She wriggles her fingers inside Kathy, feels Kathy come.

Lucius's prisoner is confessing. No doubt she would confess to assassinating the Minister of Magic if she thought it would stop Lucius. "The Order of the Phoenix has its headquarters in Bethnal Green in a shop on the Roman Road," Lucius says.

Bellatrix reaches up and puts a finger on Kathy's lips. "The headquarters are protected by a Fidelius Charm," she says. "No one knows where they are but Dumbledore."

Voldemort leans forward in his seat. "Very nicely done, Miss Black," he says.

Bellatrix looks down at Kathy. "Thank you," she mouths. And then she twists the woman's head to the side, hard, so that her neck cracks. She can be far crueler than Lucius Malfoy ever dreamed of being. She can be anything Voldemort wants her to be--so long as he wants her.


Summary: Bellatrix did her part for women's rights. Bellatrix/ OFC