A/N: My contribution to the SpookyScaryDulceWeen collection as posted by dulce-de-leche-go on Tumblr.

My thanks to SagaDevotee for capturing my imagination! If this squicks you out, Reader, blame her. Okay, you can blame me too, but her first.

Warning: Mentions of dub-con and underage sex as we begin, here. Hey, Bellatrix's father was only thirteen when she was born, so… Another warning: Blood Play happens. This is Tom and Bella…. And Tom's got a rather unsavory mind. He might think things that will NOT happen. Just a heads-up.

Basically, this isn't a good fic for the sensitive. I'm not a nice person.

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Though I often forget to say so, I am fully aware that all things Harry Potter belong to the illustrious J.K. Rowling. We are fortunate to be able to play in her sandbox. And make a mess of things.

Often.

1949

Diagon Alley was quite busy and regaining its prosperity in the post-Grindelwald age, but Tom hadn't managed to prosper along with the rest of the Wizarding World. The Pure-blood part, anyway. It infuriated him.

His mark was one of the Black boys, just there. Cygnus, he thought his name was. Look at him, all bang up to the nines, tossing Galleons about as if they were sweets. He could surely spare some of those.

"Mister Black," Tom began, looming over the boy—he was still a boy, just shopping for his first year at Hogwarts— "you seem to be having a fine day. First year at Hogwarts?"

The boy actually managed to look down his nose at him, though he was shorter by more than a half a foot. "Have we met?"

"I used to be Head Boy at Hogwarts, you see," Tom said, smiling as ingratiatingly as he knew how. "Just trying to get my feet under me now."

The boy looked about, clearly uncomfortable. "What can I do for you?"

"You could share out some of those Galleons," Tom said, trying to be both menacing and polite. It was a skill.

Cygnus Black drew away, his gray eyes narrowed in what would be, in future years, a frightening gaze. "I have nothing to share out with a perfect stranger, sir. I bid you good day."

Tom would have followed the git, but he was claimed by an elder relation—also with black hair and gray eyes—and Tom had to give it up for lost.

Damn their Pure-blood eyes!

1950

"No! I won't. Mister Riddle," Druella said, her voice rasping under the pressure of his hand at her throat. "I'm betrothed and I must be intact when he takes me to wife."

Tom didn't care that she was nine years his junior. He only cared that her sloe-eyed gaze—combined with a figure that made for hot nights and damp dreams—made him feel things he hadn't felt, well, ever. He nuzzled her under her jaw, licking her throat, pressing his erection into her belly . . .

She gasped. "I told you, no!"

"Your betrothed isn't even in his teens, my dear girl," Tom murmured, the weight of his body pressing her against the wall at her parents' house, where there was a dinner party that evening. "He wouldn't even know . . ."

"But Magic would," the fifteen-year-old girl declared, pushing at him with renewed strength. He relented, backing up two steps, but not hesitating to adjust himself before her. It was her fault, after all, that he was brought to this point. Her eyes grew wide as she watched him, but he didn't comment. He couldn't afford a feud with House Rosier or House Black.

He needed them. Pure-bloods were vital to his plans.

After stroking himself enough so that the girl's eyes slid half-shut in obvious desire, he bowed a little uncomfortably. "I bid you good night, then, lady."

He laughed—albeit bitterly—when the nuptials of Cygnus Black to Druella Rosier were announced in the Daily Prophet the following month. Cygnus did apparently know what to do with his prick, as a daughter was born almost exactly nine months later.

1971

"A Black bows to no one, Mister Riddle," Cygnus Black declared, his mien as haughty as anyone's and worse than some. "You'll have to be satisfied that we, as a House, support your cause." The man didn't even look as he slid open a drawer on his desk to acquire a velvet bag that was clearly heavy, by the sound it made on the teak desk. "And I do mean support."

Tom leant back in the leather chair before the desk and crossed his legs. He knew he presented an elegant front and he'd never tell these Noble Houses that he was only a half-blood . . . "Thank you, Mister Black," he managed to say calmly. Inwardly, though, he was fuming. "Though I can't help but ask if your family feels the same?"

He was thinking of Bellatrix, the daughter that might have been his if Druella had been slightly less cautious, once upon a time. He considered taunting Black with that, but refrained; he needed access to the Black coffers and making the man any more angry would interfere with that. So, he swallowed his ire and pretended not to care when Cygnus said his family was comprised of adults who would surely decide what was best for themselves on their own.

"But they will never bow to you," Black reiterated, handing over the bulging velvet pouch.

Leaving the Black residence, Tom smirked to himself. No, Bella, his dear Bella, didn't bow. She knelt. She panted. She spread her thighs, she let him take her any way he wanted because it made her hot.

She looked a bit like her mother, when she offered him that heavy-lidded gaze . . . Sensual. Arousing. He got hard even thinking about it. So much so that sometimes he came near to calling out Druella's name when he climaxed.

Oh, his little Bellatrix wouldn't like that at all, would she?

"Did he consent to taking your Mark, my lord?" Bella asked him when he arrived at his residence within the House of Lestrange. She wound herself around him like a vine, pressing herself to him before taking off his cloak.

"No, he did not, but your father does support my endeavors." Tom cupped her face in his hand and, seeing Rodolphus enter the foyer, he bent down to kiss Bellatrix's cheeks, slowly, keeping his eyes on her husband.

Lestrange didn't seem to care. He merely pressed his lips together and bowed.

Nancy-boy.

1981

"So it's to be tonight, then?" Bellatrix asked, licking her lips as she scraped her nails up his abdomen. Tom approved; she carried the Lestrange name but she'd belonged to him since before she was of age.

Oh, she'd been "intact" upon her wedding night, but Tom had demonstrated to her just how much room there was for pleasure whilst conforming to the rules of her betrothal contract. He Summoned his knife and sliced through the fabric of her gown, deliberately catching her skin to draw a thin line of blood between her breasts.

She hissed but her eyes glowed. Pain was an aphrodisiac for her and he enjoyed administering it. "Yes, my dear. Tonight. All Hallows' seems appropriate, don't you think?"

Her laugh was throaty as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "Indeed, my lord. Oh, look," she murmured, pressing her body to his. "You've got a present for me." He allowed her to fondle his erection—he prided himself on his virility. Though in his fifties, he was considered to be in his prime for a wizard. "Can I unwrap it?"

"You can kneel and wait for it," he countered. He made her wait as he eyed the room once again, making sure all was in readiness. Not only for now, but also for his expected celebration later. Candles in sconces in the corners of the room, the walls blank so that the focus would be entirely on those within the room. The slate floor and its scattered woven rugs. Austerity but wealth. Of course. And then, there was the focus of the entire room: the binding board. Big enough for two but used only for one person at a time. Useful for restraint. For . . . play. For . . . punishment. For Bellatrix? Sometimes it was both.

He'd told Severus he'd try to spare his little Mudblood . . . and if he did . . . perhaps he'd bring her back here, along with his Potions Master. He would make Severus bind her to the board. Physical restraints, there. The leather, yes. Not that he didn't trust Snape, but . . .

The visual would be . . . effective. And then, they'd all watch.

And then perhaps, if he were sufficiently inspired, Tom thought, he could take the Mudblood himself. That! to all the pure-bloods who'd denied him! He could have anyone.

Anyone.

"Ohhhh." Bella's voice recollected him to the pleasures at hand. She knelt at his feet, knees spread, and he used his knife to cut the rest of her gown into strips as she wore it. Each time he cut her skin, she gasped and her knees spread a bit more. The sight moved him until he gave her what she wanted.

He Banished her clothes and his own before making her stand. "Do not move," he cautioned, pointing the tip of his blade under her breast. "You may breathe, but carefully." With a measured pressure, he pierced her skin before licking the blood from it. Her breath came in shallow rasps as he continued to lick at the wounds he'd given her. Sometimes slowly, sometimes with hard flicks of his tongue.

Merlin, he enjoyed this. None of his other partners had been so willing to let him play like she did. If only her mother had allowed him to do this. If only Druella had spread her thighs as Bellatrix did . . .

He tore the tip of his knife through her skin again, drawing a thin red line from her breast to her bare mons. He insisted she be bare for him. He required it. Her arousal was nearly dripping from her body as he continued to taste her, though he didn't cut her there.

"Master . . . please . . ."

"Do. Not. Move."

He wondered if she could remain still. On her feet and utterly still if he made her come on his tongue.

Alas, she didn't.

Still, he got a rush as she disobeyed and pulled at his hair with all of her fingers as she screamed, "Master! My lord! Oh!"

He let her ride it out, though, because she tasted so very good. And then, he kissed her before saying, "You didn't hold still, my dear little Bellatrix." He sighed and flicked his knife away.

Her fingers stilled in his hair, as if she'd been Petrified. "I tried, Master."

"Not hard enough, my dear. To the board." He looked up at her, watching her throat constrict as she swallowed, hearing her breath come damply through her lips. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, Master." She scurried across the room to the binding board and obediently spread her legs and arms.

He eschewed the leather bindings for her, though. He merely Stuck her limbs to the polished mahogany before bringing out his wand and stroking himself nearly to completion. Her eyes went wide and her breasts peaked in anticipation; he knew her body language so well. "Crucio!"

She screamed and he came, painting her skin with his essence as she arched her back in agony.

He moved against her, his hand at her throat as it had once been at her mother's. "You're almost perfect," he whispered into the skin under her ear. She moaned and moved a tiny bit—all she could, under the circumstances—and he felt her pleasure against his thigh. Hot and wet, eager, he could even smell her, she was so needy. He chuckled and she stiffened.

"What, did I upset you, little Bella?" Pain could be produced in a variety of ways and this night, this night that would bring him triumph in accordance with the prophecy, he tried a form of pain to see if it afforded satisfaction. If not for Bellatrix, then perhaps for himself. "Did you wonder why you're not perfect, perhaps?"

"I, I would never presume, my lord," she replied on a whisper as he entered her. She wasn't pliant, but resistant. And that made him thrust harder. "Mm. I mean, you are a man of great experience and I am grateful for your attention." She turned her head and kissed his jaw.

"And if I told you who was perfect, my little Bella?"

She frowned, her brow furrowed as she tried to keep her temper. Oh, he knew his Bella. He knew her well. "I'd rather not know, Master. I am—"

"Jealous?" he whispered, feeling his heat rising hot and fast. He pounded into her, not heeding the way she was trying to push him off with the mere movement of her hips. "Think I should only think of you when I'm with you? I can think of whomever I like."

"Who, then, Master?" A reckless light flared in her dark eyes and he pulled out and away from her, Summoning his knife once more and twirling it. The candlelight flashed along the blade. She didn't seem to notice. "Would it please you to make your Bella feel small and worthless?"

"I like to cause you pain, my Bella."

She focused, then, on the knife and he saw the muscles of her face relax. "You're very good at pain, my lord. Please . . ."

He unStuck her from the board, taking one of her pale arms—strong and beautiful, truly—in one hand. Slicing her enough for the blood to run freely, he whispered, "Druella Rosier."

"What?! My mother!? You knew her?"

"She was perfect," Tom said, relishing the pain in her voice, the way her limb stiffened in his grasp. "You look so much like her, dear Bella."

"My mother?" she demanded again, fury now ringing clearly. He laughed as she struggled. "No! Not her! That's—"

"Druella. She is the standard by which I measure all women," he assured her, smiling broadly into the face of her shock and anger. "Druella Rosier Black."

"No!" Bella's hair flared from her head as it seemed to spark with her ire. She pointed one finger at him, and he barely had a chance to notice that she aimed her hand at his manhood before she shouted one word: "Bombarda!"

Druella's name was the last thing he said. Her daughter's curses were the last things he heard.

What about the prophecy? his awareness screamed as he died in furious agony. What about the prophecy?

His splintered soul left his partially dismembered corpse to enter the gray non-world of Ether as he waited . . .

. . . For a long time . . .

Meanwhile, in Godric's Hollow, James Potter kept watch.

The next day, when Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people, was hailed a heroine—

You-Know-Who is D-E-A-D!

by Barnabas Cuffe

Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, is being hailed as a heroine today. In her own words:

"He, my husband, and I were just playing a little game. It was harmless, really, until, well . . . Oops?"

Her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, said he and his wife were meeting with the Ministry first thing this morning. We here at the Prophet will have all the latest details for you as they emerge!

Minister Bagnold will be holding a Press Conference this afternoon and this reporter will be there.

—the Potter and Longbottom families emerged from hiding and resumed their places in the Wizarding World once more.

And all was well . . .

. . . For a while . . .

A/N: I know, not really scary, but I've been told it IS creepy and . . . messy . . .

Happy Hallows' Eve.