LOYAL TO THE DARK LORD:

An Augury Origin Tale

Description & Disclaimer:

After defying the Dark Lord at a Death Eater's meeting, Bellatrix is punished within an inch of her life by the man whose baby she's carrying. A dark, twisted tale featuring Bellatrix/Voldemort in which she spars with and confides in both her sister Narcissa, who's keeping her own secrets, and current Hogwarts headmaster Severus Snape, a man whose loyalty she has long doubted, even as she begins to question her own.

This is the sequel to MISTRESS OF THE DARK LORD, which takes place in three months earlier in September, 1997. While it's not necessary to read that one first, it is recommended as it will make this one easier to follow. Both are inspired by Cursed Child and contain spoilers.

No trigger warnings (because I don't believe in them as an author nor do I appreciate them as a reader) but if dark, disturbing themes and sexual violence bother you, or if you're under 17, you should not read – this is about the relationships between Bellatrix/Narcissa an Bellatrix/Severus but also about the messed up 'relationship' between Bellatrix/Voldemort. It's not a fluff fic. Reviews appreciated! Thanks.

CHAPTER ONE:

Insubordination

"Auntie?"

Bellatrix opened her eyes… well, her eye. The one she could manage. Fuck, what happened? Her head pounded. Everything hurt. Why couldn't she open the other eye?

"Auntie? Are you awake?" Draco's voice sounded so small, the way it had when he was a baby, before she went to Azkaban. "Auntie" was one of his first words. "Auntie, can I come in?"

Bellatrix intended to say no, to tell her nephew to return later, but all that came out of her mouth was a hoarse growl. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Draco," she whispered. Not loud enough.

"Auntie Bella?" The doorknob turned. It occurred to her she could wave her hand and lock it, the way she usually did before bed, but when she tried to raise her arm she was overcome with pain and weakness and an unfamiliar sore feeling. She looked down with her one good eye. Bruises greeted her, speckled across her upper arm and right wrist, reminding her of the night before. Or was it two nights before? What day was it, anyway?

"It's Christmas morning." Draco let himself into the room, answering the question she hadn't asked out loud. "I came by yesterday, but Mum said you couldn't see me."

"Yesterday?" she whispered. She had no recollection of yesterday, Christmas Eve day.

"You were supposed to work with me on my Occlumency lessons," said Draco, shutting the bedroom door behind him. "And on throwing off the Imperius Curse. Remember?"

"I… remember." Why did it hurt to talk? She remembered Him grabbing her by the arms, forcing her up against the wall… forcing his way into her mind… but her throat? She didn't remember Him touching her throat. And her eye? She blinked. It hurt. Why?

"You look… you don't look… are you okay?" Draco hovered nervously by the end of the bed, afraid to come closer.

"Sit," said Bellatrix, indicating the space by her feet. She pulled herself into a sitting position, cross-legged, ignoring the pain in her lower body. What the hell happened?

"Do you need anything?"

"Why are you speaking to me as if I'm an invalid?" she sneered, but with her voice raspy and weak she knew her question hardly had the effect she'd desired, which was to scare him so he'd stop looking at her that way – like she was a wounded puppy.

"You angered You-Know-Who at the meeting the other day," explained Draco. "He asked to see you later. He… have you looked in a mirror?"

"No. Get me one."

Using his wand, Draco summoned a small, ornate hand mirror from the dresser, one that had belonged to his maternal grandmother. He handed it to his aunt.

It took all of her strength not to gasp upon taking in the sight of her face. The eye she couldn't open was swollen shut. There was a bruised oval from her eyebrow to her cheekbone that looked so black when she touched it she half-expected it to come off on her fingers, like charcoal. Beyond the black was a ring of deep purple, and surrounding that, blotches of red.

She also had swelling above her lip, which appeared to have been bleeding recently, though she supposed the blood crusted there could have come from her nose.

She tilted the mirror above her to see down. Now she knew why it was difficult to speak. She had raised purplish marks in the front around the sides of her neck. Clearly He'd choked her. He had done this before – during sex – and a couple of times He'd left a mark, but never, NEVER like this. She placed her fingers gingerly against the bruising on the center of her throat and fought back a sick feeling swirling in her stomach. Her stomach! The baby. Was the baby…? She couldn't say anything, not to Draco, not to anyone, but suddenly terror gripped her. What had the Dark Lord done to her? Had his fury cost her their baby?

"Auntie?"

"I cannot help you with Occlumency today, Draco," she said. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"Okay," he said, averting her gaze. "Also, Father was wondering…"

But whatever Lucius was wondering, she didn't find out, because at that moment (without knocking!) the door opened again and in walked Narcissa.

"Oh, good, you're awake." She closed the door behind her. "Did Draco ask you what you want to eat?"

"Eat?" Bellatrix put the mirror down beside her on the bed, her other hand not leaving her throat. "I can't eat."

"You must," said Narcissa. "Draco, leave us."

He nodded, jumping up from the bed, seemingly relieved. When he was gone, Narcissa used her wand to lock the door.

"This is your punishment for insubordination?" asked Narcissa, settling into the spot her son had just vacated. "For a moment of impertinence He beat you to within an inch of your life?"

"You wouldn't understand," said Bellatrix, haughtily.

"You're right," said Narcissa. "I understand why we're on the side we're on, but I don't understand why you worship Him, why you willingly give yourself to him, why you…"

"Rodolphus left me."

"What?"

"Yesterday. I remember now. When Draco woke me, I was confused, but it's coming back." Bellatrix rubbed her temples. Damn it. Not only had she endured public humiliation when the Dark Lord threw her out of their meeting, but then He'd made her pay for it repeatedly later that night, and the next day she was dumped by her lousy husband.

"Why… why did he leave you? What did he… say? I… Lucius told me Rodolphus decided to bunk in with Rabastan, but I assumed… with you in your condition… I thought…"

"You assumed he simply didn't want to be around me on account of I'm broken?"

Narcissa's eyes widened. "No! No, Bella, that's not what I…"

"I'm pregnant."

"I… you're what?"

Bellatrix hugged her knees to her chest. Fuck. Everything hurt. Including… there.

"I need to be alone, Cissy."

"Bella, please, if you need me…"

"I don't need anyone, Narcissa."

Narcissa's face flushed. She knew she'd said the wrong thing. If there was one thing her sister truly feared (beside disappointing the Dark Lord) it was demonstrating weakness.

"I'm here," she said softly, rising from the bed. "I'll return later."

Bellatrix did not respond. As soon as the door was closed, she wandlessly charmed it locked. She now vividly remembered the Death Eaters meeting two days before, the day before Christmas Eve. It was shortly after lunch. The Dark Lord was planning something to trap Harry Potter and his rotten friends, the blood-traitor and that muggle girl, should they attempt to contact crazy Lovegood at his home, as the Dark Lord suspected he might. They were already holding Luna Lovegood, the Quibbler editor's only daughter, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix closed her good eye, trying to remember what He'd said, what she'd been responding to, what had made Him so angry, but it wouldn't come to her. Dammit. All she could remember was His reaction. He sat back, slightly bemused, and regarded her slowly, His eyes traveling down her body and back up again in a way that made her shiver.

"You dare to question me and my methods, Mrs. Lestrange?" He asked in his usual quiet hiss. Her intestines twisted. He never called her Mrs. Lestrange, not ever, save for the occasional moment in bed in jest, which she understood He did simply to remind her that she was a Missus in name only, because – as he often reminded her – she belonged to him.

"Sir," she'd said, ready to apologize and beg forgiveness, but He waved a hand dismissively.

"Go on," He said. "Out."

"On? Out?"

"You are dismissed."

"Dis… dismissed?"

"From the meeting."

She glanced around the table at her fellow Death Eaters, trying to hide her panic. "Dismissed? For how long?"

"Out."

"Out?"

"Have you lost your ability to comprehend what is being said to you? Rodolphus, escort your wife from the room. Her presence is no long required here."

Rodolphus hopped up from his chair, overly eager to comply, perhaps to make it clear to everyone that he showed no favoritism to his own wife. He grabbed her by the elbow, lifted her from her chair, and hurried her toward the door.

"My Lord?" she said, unwilling to be cast out, desperate to be punished so she could be forgiven.

"Goodbye," He said.

Rodolphus pushed her out and shut the heavy drawing room door behind her. She leaned against it, fighting angry tears. How dare He cast her out! How dare He embarrass her in front of everyone! How dare He treat her this way, when she was doing nothing more or less than trying to help Him! Furious, she stalked off to her room, shooting an undeserved dirty look at a bewildered Draco when they passed each other in the hall.

Back in her bedroom, she paced back and forth, positively fuming.

Hours later He summoned her alone to His chambers. Setting aside her anger, she entered prepared to beg forgiveness, as she should have at the meeting. He would have none of it.

Grabbing her by the upper arms, He forced her against the wall so roughly her head banged back into it.

"Shit," she swore. He showed no mercy."

"Who do you think you are, Bellatrix Lestrange, to question me in front of my Death Eaters? Who do you think you are to question me at all? You think because of this –" his eyes darted down to her midsection, which had begun to expand rather rapidly in the last several weeks to make room for the baby she was carrying – "You are entitled to special privileges?"

"No, my Lord..."

"Correct." He removed his right hand from her left upper arm but relief was brief. His fingers tangled themselves in her thick, wild hair, as He pulled her head back so she was staring straight up at the ceiling.

"My Lord…" She tried to plead for mercy, but He was having none of it.

"You think your condition earns you special privileges, do you? You think you are safe from my wrath? You think you can…"

"No, my Lord," she began, but He pulled her hair harder.

"You think you can interrupt me? Have you forgotten who you're speaking to?"

Bellatrix took in a sharp breath. No, she hadn't forgotten. She hadn't forgotten – had He? Had He forgotten who she was? His most loyal servant? The woman who'd made herself available to Him in any way – in every way! – since she was seventeen years old? That woman He'd chosen to co-create and carry His heir? She clenched her teeth.

"Well? Answer me," He hissed, releasing her hair so they could make eye contact. "Have you forgotten who you're speaking to?"

"I believe you mean to ask, 'have you forgotten to whom you are speaking,'" she answered, aware that those might be her very last words.

But to her surprise, after a moment's pause, the Dark Lord laughed.

"Oh, Bella," he said, not releasing her right arm, but loosening his grip. His slid His other hand around her waist to rest on her lower back. "Crazy Bella. Sometimes I wonder what's going on in that mind of yours…"

Without further indication of what He was about to do, the Dark Lord plunged into her mind, probing. Despite her proficiency at Occlumency (which He taught her over two decades before) she was caught off-guard, which, of course, meant the first thing He saw was the last thing she would want Him to see.

"You were with him?" the Dark Lord snarled. He shoved her against the wall and backed away.

"He's my husband," she said weakly, knowing that was hardly a sufficient response.

"When?"

"Last night."

"I gave you clear orders." His eyes flashed as He raised His wand. She shrunk back, terrified. The orders He was referring to had been given months earlier, back when He indicated that she no longer needed to be so "careful" about avoiding becoming pregnant, a surprising change considering His violent reaction the one previous time she actually had.

In her bed in the room she, until the day before, shared with her useless husband, Bellatrix shuddered. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? It was the damn baby, it had to be. The damn baby had been messing with her hormones since week one, turning her into a walking mess of contradicting emotions and impulsivity.

In September, after she learned she was pregnant, visited her younger sister Andromeda for (forced) advice, and revealed her condition to the Dark Lord, she started to feel like herself again. October and November passed uneventfully (as uneventful as war time could be, that is). But in December, the weight gain began. Not the little bit she experienced for the first three months, which saw her breasts growing one cup size but a hardly noticeable change to her midsection. Suddenly, she was gaining weight, significant weight, and struggling to hide it. She began wearing her Death Eater robes to all Death Eater meetings, uncharacteristic of a woman who, in the past, didn't even bother with robes and a mask when attacking Muggles or invading the Ministry. She never felt she had anything to hide before – she wanted the world to know where her loyalties lay – but suddenly all of her corsets and dresses were either uncomfortably tight or completely un-wearable and every day she wondered when those closest to her (namely Narcissa and Rodolphus) would notice.

She also worried, just a little, that her secret would be leaked to those blood-traitors and Mudbloods in the Order of the Phoenix, by none other than Andromeda, whose daughter and son-in-law were loyal to Dumbledore no matter what it might mean in regards to the safety of their own unborn child.

Despite the nagging anxiety over being found out and the building desire to find and destroy the so-called Golden Trio, everything was fine in the life of Bellatrix Black Lestrange.

Except one thing.

He wouldn't touch her.

He hadn't touched her since she told Him.

In September.

Over three months ago.

And she was dying to be touched.

She blamed this on the baby too. In the past, her sex drive (if it could be called that) was wrapped up entirely in Him. She didn't desire a shag, she desired Him. She didn't want to be fucked, she wanted to be fucked by Him. Which is why she viewed literally every single sexual encounter with her husband as a chore required by their marriage vows, one that had to be done frequently enough to avoid an issue, but also as infrequently as possible because she hated it.

Which is why it made no sense at all that she responded to him the way she had.

Three nights ago, somewhere after midnight (so technically two mornings ago) she'd awoken to a not-unpleasant feeling on her left arm. She was sleeping on her side, as usual, facing away from her husband.

"What the hell are you playing at?" she asked, debating whether to pull away.

"You're filling out," he said. "I noticed when you changed for bed tonight. You looked good."

"Filling out?" She rolled onto her back. "Am I a twelve-year-old who's just hit puberty?"

"You're an underfed forty-something who's suddenly developed a figure," he said. She scowled, but allowed him to continue lightly running his fingertips across her inner forearm.

"So as you're aware," she said, turning to face him, "Calling a woman 'a forty-something' won't exactly make her want to hop into bed with you."

"You're already in bed with me." His hand snaked from her arm to her ribcage, brushing just barely against the bottom of her breast. "You're my wife."

"Don't remind me." Her tone was acidic, but she didn't stop him from moving his hand higher. He cupped her breast and squeezed. Despite her loyalty to the man she called her Master, when Rolophus leaned over to kiss her she accepted his tongue in her mouth, rolling onto her back, and raked her nails roughly up to his shoulders.

Fuck, it had been so long since the last time anybody touched her.

As much as the thought of being with him repulsed her, to be perfectly fair, her husband was a good kisser. 'He kisses like a woman,' she thought as he continued to explore her mouth, 'All softness and without force.' The Dark Lord never kissed her like that. He claimed her mouth the same way He claimed her body: insistently, possessively, and generally without unnecessary tenderness.

Rodolphus' mouth made its way from her lips to her neck to her chest. He flicked his tongue under the material of her nightgown and she moaned. Using one hand, he pushed aside the fabric and took her nipple into his mouth.

Damn, it felt good. She closed her eyes and tried to envision herself at seventeen again, in the bed of the Dark Lord, but for perhaps the first time ever the fantasy failed her. Rodolphus' free hand slid down her side to her hip as momentarily she panicked, sure he would realize she'd gained weight in more than her chest.

"Don't," she said, moving his hand back up.

He looked at her quizzically but did not argue, no doubt just happy in the fact she wasn't denying him.

The sex itself was fine. Her husband had never been a master in the bedroom, but she supposed he was adequate so long as she kept her expectations low, and he got her off (for a change) which was, in her opinion, all that mattered. Shortly thereafter she fell asleep, never intending for anyone to find out about it.

Certainly never intending for the Dark Lord to probe her mind and witness it Himself.

A knock at the door made her jump. Assuming Narcissa had returned, she waved the lock charm off the door and called in a still-raspy voice, "Enter."

"Good morning," came the silky, expressionless voice of one of her least favorite people. "So lovely to see you."

Bellatrix hastened to pull up her comforter, hiding as many of her visible injuries as possible, determined not to appear weak in front of this loathsome man.

"It would be polite for you to return my greeting," he chastised condescendingly. She glared at him.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Snape?"